


Anyone Who Isn't Us

by gaygreekgladiator (ama)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Gods of the Arena, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Big Bang Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anyone who isn’t us is our enemy.</p><p>Duro and Agron are separated at the auction block. Duro is sent to Batiatus’s ludus, where Auctus, a disillusioned veteran, does his best to keep him alive without admitting that he wants to keep him alive. Agron is sent to Picintia, where his only ally is his master’s submissive body slave, Tiberius</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is it—my contribution to the first-ever Spartacus Big Bang! The Title and summary quote come from George RR Martin's Game of Thrones.
> 
> I can’t articulate how grateful I am to: arkatrine, who made the AMAZING accompanying art (there are potentially more pieces to come, but school has this horrible habit of prioritizing classwork over fanwork, so just keep your eye out); to punk4life1315, who beta’d for me; and to rivlee, who was my loudest cheerleaders and helped look over this fic. I really hope you know how much this has meant to me, even though I can't express it. Thank you very much to everyone else who’s been so wonderfully encouraging these past few months. There are too many of you to list, but you know who you are and I appreciate you all.
> 
> Just a quick note on “chapters”; when I wrote this fic, it wasn’t necessarily in pieces. Posting limits, of course, necessitate some breaks, but the size of each post varies greatly. *** indicates a shift between Duro or Agron’s point of view. - indicate a scene change, and ... indicates a shift to or from Auctus or Nasir’s point of view. This fic is also available on lj (g_g_gladiators.livejournal.com), with accompanying fanmixes and further notes.

When Agron was young, his mother had told him about the sea. She said that the gods had made it so that humans might know what it felt to touch the sky, that it was vast and unending and dark as the heavens, that it smelled of salt and new beginnings. He had not understood, and he had dreamed of smelling the sea.

Now there was not a fucking thing whose stench he wouldn’t prefer.

Every part of the ship stank of salt. He could not escape the ocean; his dreams echoed with the creaking of wet wood and the clanking of rusted chains. Each morning, one of the Romans came down to the hull in order to pour salt water on Agron’s wound—a blessing from Neptune, he said, to prevent infection. Well, the Roman god held no love for Agron. His blood stung and the bandage became crusted with white, so stiff that it did nothing to stem the slow flow of blood and pus.

It was spring, and Agron had forgotten how warmth felt. At night, Duro fell asleep on his shoulder, but his brother’s body felt as cold as a corpse

***

A violent shake woke Duro. He jumped, swearing, and looked up to find Agron’s eyes fixed on him intently. Seeing him, Agron breathed a sigh of relief.

“Not yet.”

“The fuck do you mean?” Duro demanded, torn between irritation and fear.

“Not yet,” Agron repeated, grasping Duro’s wrist. His grip was weak. “Not ever. Not yet, the gods—”

“We’ll land soon,” Duro said, patting his brother on the shoulder. He wanted to sound soothing, but there was little calm in his voice; he was not used to seeing Agron weak. “Not yet, but soon. The gods will see to it. There will be food, and fresh water, and no more fucking waves. Do not worry yourself. Sleep—gather strength.”

Agron nodded vaguely and shook Duro’s wrist.

“Sleep, Duro—gather strength,” he parroted with a smile.

Duro’s heart sank. He might have been able to ignore the unnatural pitch of Agron’s voice before, or to brush off his incoherence as dregs of sleep. But the brightness in his eyes… Duro nodded, patting Agron again. His skin was dangerously hot, and wet with perspiration. There was no more denying that he was feverish. Agron’s eyes fell closed.

“He has no strength left,” someone else said, a Gaul who had joined them at Neapolis. “He will be dead by the time we reach Capua.”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Duro said loudly. Too loudly. Around him, men and women stirred, their chains rattling and their voices rising in irritation at the rude awakening. Agron slept on.

With great care, Duro reached over and slowly, gently, lifted the salt-soaked bandage from the wound on Agron’s chest. He hissed in empathic pain at the sight of it. The cut had not been deep, but it was swollen and pink, and a thin white liquid was spilling over the edge of it.

Duro tore a piece of fabric from his own meager clothing and pressed it to the wound. It was not as fresh or clean as he would have wished, but it was better than the filthy bandage Agron had had before.

“Not yet,” he said quietly. “Soon. Very fucking soon.”

***

His head was spinning. He could hear Duro’s voice fading in and out—”speak, both of us, and the strongest”—but could not discern his companion. He thought, distantly, that it looked like a tree, tall and steady and dark. That couldn’t be true, though, because there were no trees on ships. Duro was silenced abruptly, and he felt dizzy again. The tree-man reached forward and peeled the bandage off of his chest, and Agron winced.

“The wound has festered,” he said sternly.

“Easily treatable,” Trebius bluffed.

“At the expense of my dominus? I think not.”

He walked away, and Trebius frowned at Agron. Agron frowned back.

“Fucking Romans,” he said to Duro when the slaver’s back was turned.

“Fuck them all,” Duro agreed. “They won’t separate us.”

“No,” Agron agreed, confused. “Why would they?”

“They won’t,” his brother repeated.

Then there was a sharp stinging on Agron’s shoulder; maybe it was a whip, but it felt more like a harsh sunburn at the end of a long day. They fell silent, and the city around them grew even louder. There were more people in Capua than Agron had ever seen, and they all seemed to be talking at once. A few voices climbed higher than the rest, but he could hardly bother to discern the words.

It had been several years since he had the time to focus on Latin; he had learned the language from the village teacher, along with other boys his age, and found that it had come easy to him. But then a host of other things had swept him away. He had grown up, grown big enough to help Mama with the livestock, grown old enough to take over care of Duro.

Agron almost smiled to himself as he remembered. Back then, he had thought it a hassle to watch over his brother. He had been—what—eleven? Twelve? There were more important things on his mind than making sure Duro got his lessons, and chasing after him when he forsook his chores in favor of wandering amongst the woods and playing with stray dogs. He had thought Duro unbearably childish, despite the minimal difference between them in age.

When he was older, though, he had better understood the responsibility and the privilege that came with his position. He was always taller, stronger, shrewder than his brother. The role of protector suited him, and, when he realized how much Duro truly respected and relied on him, he had found pride in it as well. Things like Latin had fallen aside in favor of swordfighting. To keep them safe.

Agron had spent half his life chasing after Duro….

With a start, he looked down to see the slaver undoing the fetters connecting him to the other men on the auction block. Curious, he looked up at Duro and saw an unfamiliar expression on his face—fear. Duro was never afraid. Vulnerable, or naïve, perhaps, but never afraid. Like a well-trained dog, Agron found his heart swelling to face whatever new danger was faced them.

“Don’t worry,” he said, fumbling over the Latin words. “It’s habit by now.”

Duro glanced at him, desperation in his face, and then turned back to the crowd. He shouted something in Latin, but it was too quick for Agron to understand, the words tripping over each other in his haste, and the sudden laughter of the crowd swallowed his sentence. Agron frowned as Duro’s voice climbed louder and higher, his anxiety plain, and he realized that Duro was stumbling, pulled to follow the other slaves by the chains at his hands and feet.

  
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“ _Ich werde dich finden, bruhder_ ,” he swore, in their native tongue.  _I will find you_.

The words rolled comfortably in his ear, the sounds of home so soothing that, for a moment, he didn’t even understand what they meant. They rang in his head again— _ich werde dich finden_ —and he opened his mouth to call out to Duro, to ask him what was wrong.

The second his brother’s name left his lips, he felt the hard slap of leather across his back. His knees buckled, and his vision turned hot and white and flashing red.


	2. Chapter 2

They were transported in an open cart on the road from the city of Capua to their new master’s villa. The heat was a real, physical thing in Rome. Duro could feel the sun penetrating every layer of his skin. He had always thought he liked the heat, but those had been German summers. He looked out over the dry, dusty landscape and wondered if it ever snowed in Capua. If he would be alive to see it.

There were four other men in the cart with him: the Gaul, Segovax, two others who had been on the same ship, Laz and Rabinus, and one other whom he did not know. The final man met his gaze with an expression of pity. Duro glared at him.

“Have you ever seen the games?” the slave asked. “I have. Some of the finest in Capua are from the House of Batiatus.”

Duro had to admit that he was pleased to hear it, and despite his irritation he almost longed for conversation. He had never been one to favor silence. As he was about to reply, though, he remembered the last time he had been transported in a slaver’s cart. It had been much like this one, only packed with more people bound in stronger chains.

Many had been German, too, and understood their tongue, but none had been of their tribe, and Agron had watched them carefully. When he thought that Duro was being too familiar with them, he would cluck his tongue the way their mother used to in a calculated effort to make Duro’s skin crawl. After a week of that, though—a week of sleeping and eating and pissing  and travelling with the same dozen people, and scarcely able to talk with them—he had objected.

He waited until late at night, when all the captives except his paranoid brother had fallen to slumber.

“You don’t have to be so fucking suspicious,” he had complained. “I doubt any one of these shits could make circumstances worse than they are now.”

“You underestimate them. I would not give fucking opportunity.”

“Our own people, Agron? The Celts, the Gauls, the Romans—let them fucking rot, but our people are not our enemy.”

Agron had leaned forward, his voice low and brittle in the cold night, and said, “Anyone who isn’t us is our enemy.”

He had been still, his eyes intent on Duro’s face, for a long time, before he turned away and fell asleep. Duro had been less easy. He stayed awake, eyes drawn every few moments to Agron’s wound. It hadn’t gotten infected until they were on the ship, but it had worried him even then with its stubborn refusal to heal. He had known on some level that Agron was weakened—that there was a possibility Duro would have to protect him, rather than rely on him. The thought of placing his brother’s welfare in the hands of strangers, Germans or no, had repulsed him.

Even now, with the cart slowly transporting Duro away from Agron, he could not stomach the thought.

“Fuck you, your games, and this fucking house,” he spat in German at the slave.

Doctore, who was sitting in the front of the cart, turned around and hit Duro roughly on the back of his head.

“Barbaric tongues are not to be spoken in the ludus,” he said in a harsh voice. “Those of you who know Latin, speak it—when you are told. Until then, keep your mouths shut.”

Duro shut his mouth and looked away, gazing out at the hot, barren planes of Capua. There were hills in the distance, but they seemed very far away and very small.

***

When Agron next awoke, and was conscious of doing so, he was in an unfamiliar place. He looked around, disoriented, at the clay walls, the stone bricks, and the window. It had been so fucking long since he last saw a window. If only there were trees, too. He breathed in the clean air and sighed in relief. He was off that fucking ship, at last. He lifted one arm to rub his eyes and found it weak, but unchained.

Duro, he thought suddenly. Where was Duro?

It returned to him slowly, in dreamlike flashes: the city, the crowd, the auction block, the heavy chains and the heat. Panic began to rise in his heart. Duro had been sold like chattel, like a common beast. And Agron hadn’t been sold with him.

The door opened. Agron sat up and saw the slave trader enter, accompanied by a medicus.

“Is he coherent?” Trebius asked.

“Yes.”

“Appears so,” the medicus answered, ignoring Agron’s response. “His fever broke last night.”

He approached Agron and pushed him back down on to the bench. Agron obeyed, because he was no good to anyone wounded. The medicus peeled back the thin cotton bandages and began to inspect the injury. He nodded to himself and poked it with one gnarled finger. It didn’t hurt as much as usual, Agron noticed, and when he glanced down, he saw not raw, sensitive flesh, but a dark and newly-healing scar. He was ready to be sold.

“Yes, it’s healed quite well,” the medicus said in a pleased voice. “Fever’s broken, infection has passed… recovery after this will be swift.”

“Where is my brother?” Agron asked. The slave trader ignored him.

“Can he train, as a guard or gladiator?” he asked dispassionately. The medicus wrenched Agron’s arm up, disturbing the new scab. Agron hissed.

“Soon,” the medicus nodded. Trebius grunted his approval.

“Where is Duro?” Agron repeated, louder.

“Sold. It is none of your concern.”

He stepped closer and grabbed Agron roughly by the jaw, forcing him to meet the man’s eyes. Agron couldn’t control the fury that rose up in him, the pure hatred towards the man who had  _sold his brother_. He could only imagine how much of that showed on his face, and it earned him a slap. He had taken worse blows.

“There will be no more fucking foolishness,” Trebius growled. “Bad enough, your showing in Capua. I will not have it be said that my slaves are rowdy; you will behave, or you will be cast to the mines. Do you understand, you miserable cunt?”

Agron glared at him. Silently, slowly, he nodded.

“Good.” Then, to the medicus, “Are you sure infection will not return?”

“Yes. See here—”

Trebius leaned closer to inspect the wound, and Agron did not hesitate to consider the wisdom of his actions. He reached up and seized the man by the throat.

He could feel his own weakness; inactivity and illness had robbed him of needed strength, so he did not stay still. Ignoring the shouts, the hands beating at his arms, he rolled off of the low table and pinned the Roman to the floor. He was larger, he was heavier and, even now, he was stronger. The proof of it was the pure fear in Trebius’s eyes when Agron pressed his hand against the knot at his throat. Somewhere, the medicus was shouting for aid, but he ignored him. That was not a problem.

“Where is he?” he snarled.

“No—” the slaver rasped. “No, you can’t—”

Agron punched him. There was a wet crack as his nose broke and blood spilled over his lips.

“I can.  _Tell me_.”

“I don’t… I don’t…”

“ _Where_?”

“Capua,” he choked. “Capua, somewhere in Capua.”

Agron had no fucking idea where Capua was. ‘Somewhere in Capua’ was not going to satisfy him. He raised his bloody fist again, but suddenly his arm was seized and he was thrown back on the floor. The medicus’s calls for help had been answered; for a split-second, he recognized two of Trebius’s guards, and then he was blinded as they began kicking him, knocking the wind from his lungs and bruising tender, newly-healed flesh. He raised his arms to shield his face.

After a few moments—not long enough to cause damage that would impact his sale—the guards took him by the arms and pulled him up.

“Enjoy the fucking mines,” one of them sneered.

“No,” Trebius croaked. “Not the mines. I am fucking sick of these barbarian cunts. We will send him  _carnifici_.”

Agron was unfamiliar with the word he used, but he barely cared. Trebius stepped forward, his eyes brimming with contempt, and punched him flat on the cheek. It stung, a little, but not enough to stop Agron from lunging forward and growling like an enraged wolf. He grinned when Trebius shied away, and was not surprised that he was slapped again.

“It is a waste,” the medicus said with a frown. “He’s a strong one, and I would call the recovery miraculous. Even the mines would pay—”

“The others were purchased beyond their value; I am not so short on coin that I need worry.” He stepped forward and spoke lowly. It would have been vaguely intimidating, if he were taller. “I will enjoy the sight of your blood on the sands.”

He stalked out, and Agron spat after him. The guards gave him an apathetic shake and dragged him through the doorway. Agron’s thoughts went back to the unfamiliar word. He had heard of fighting pits, where mediocre gladiators were sent to die. Even the free Romans who had sold him spoke of the place with a darkened brow, and mumbled when they spoke of them. Had  _carnifici_  been the word? Well, fuck him, then. Agron would paint the earth red with a thousand men’s blood, and then he would kill Trebius with his bare hands if the man refused to look for Duro. Agron was no stranger to pain or killing. It would be easy.

As they walked, the two guards began to argue. Apparently they had made bets on Agron. If it weren’t for the unquenchable fury, aimed at Trebius, that yet surged through him, he would be irritated.

“You owe me three denarii.”

“He survived. I owe you shit!”

“I told you he would be dead within seven days, and he will be.”

“From the wound, you said, not—”

“Does it fucking matter?”

“Where are we?” Agron interrupted as the guards led him outside.

The sun was low in the sky, and warmer than he had expected. Back home, the days would still be tinged with winter’s chill. At least, he thought they would. He did not know how long he had been on the sea.

There were other differences, too; there were more stone buildings and bricks than Agron had ever seen in one place, besides Capua. And it seemed as though there were as many people as bricks, though he could not see them all. He heard them, though, each word from each mouth rising up, bouncing off the stones, forming a great cacophony of sound like squawking spring birds. There were other sounds, too, enough for Agron to guess that they were near a whorehouse. Several whorehouses.

He looked around grimly and saw that he was far from the only slave on this street. Few were as strong as he was, even given his illness, and most bore conspicuous marks of their servitude, wooden earrings or collars or brands, that they wore like Agron wore his own skin. Whores were in front of every other house, calling out to men on the street, who were followed by meek-looking body slaves.

As Agron watched, one of the men approached an alleyway where a whore waited beside the brothel. Her lips curved in a sweet smile and parted to speak. Before she was able to, though, the Roman forced her to her knees, and her words broke off in a startled gasp. A bodyguard stepped forward from the alley, but he did not seek to interrupt, only held out a hand for coins. The Roman’s slave fetched the money from her master’s purse, her bruised face as still as stone. His friends roared with drunken laughter.

Agron looked away and tried to tell himself that the roiling in his stomach was from lack of food, and the festering wound. The guards didn’t seem to notice.

“Picintia,” one of them said, sounding bored. Agron had not expected an answer; he could only presume that they thought him too low to be irritated with.

“Which way is Capua?” he asked, pressing his luck.

“Thereabouts.” The guard waved his arm carelessly, but Agron took careful note of the sun. Capua was to the north, somewhere. Good. North would see them out of Italia and into Gallia. After that, Agron knew the territory well enough to find the Rhine again.

“Why does it fucking matter?” the other guard said bitterly. He was the one who had lost the bet.

“When I kill every Roman shit in this fuckhole, that’s where I’m going,” Agron said, boastfully. The guards snorted and wrenched him forward, and Agron’s chained feet stumbled.

“You’ll be dead before us,” the first man said with a shrug. “ _Carnifax_  will see to that.”

“I am not so easily bested.”

“Then the next one will see you to the same end, or the next. As I said, within seven days. Earlier, if Trebius finds the effort.”

Something on Agron’s face—confusion, perhaps, or too much confidence—tipped off the second guard, and he let out a sharp bark of laughter.

“The barbarian fuck doesn’t know the word.”

“The—the holes. The places where men fight, underground,” Agron said, with false bravado. “I’ve heard of them. I am not meant to die like a rabid dog. Survival is not impossible.”

“ _Carnifax_  doesn’t mean pits,” the guard said in German.

Agron had a half-second to wonder when the man had served in his lands. Agron’s people lived practically on the banks of the Rhine; very few soldiers could penetrate the river, the rocks, the trees, and the tribes of cunning, ruthlessly protective warriors. In their territory, Romans tended to favor trade over battle, and Agron’s family had interacted with most of them. Had Agron met this man before? Years ago, when he was a child? Had it been one of Agron’s people, his mother or his father or his grandfather, who taught him their tongue?

He was not left long to his musings, as the guard spoke again, harsh tone offset by familiar language.

“It means  _executioner_.”

***

“That tiny man is the champion of Capua?” Duro asked as Spartacus retreated through the rough stone corridor. The champion was only Duro’s height, and less broad. The men had spoken of Spartacus fighting huge numbers of men alone, of felling giants. There was no doubt in Duro’s mind that he needed but Agron at his side to best this champion. “Fucking Romans swell his legend to their own advantage.”

“Spartacus defeated Theokoles, and the skies wept to honor his victory,” Segovax said coldly. “You would prevent challenge equal to piss and shit.”

Duro shrugged him off, rolling his eyes.

“You doubt my words?” Segovax continued, irritated.

“A stupid fuck like you knows nothing of the arena or of battle. Why  _should_  I trust your opinions?”

“Spartacus is a man to be held as an example,” Segovax insisted. “The man ignites the arena; one day the flames shall set him free.”

“I’ve witnessed such a thing,” another recruit said suddenly. They were the first words he had spoken to them since the journey from Capua; Duro still didn’t know his name. He spoke as if in a dream, his voice rapturous and distant. “The roar of the crowd, demanding a gladiator be granted freedom for his showing in the arena.”

“You haven’t even earned the mark of the fucking Brotherhood, and you cluck about freedom?” Duro snorted.

“Segovax is right; Spartacus shows us the way. I will train as he trains, every thrust and counter committed to memory, and one day, I will too become legend in the arena.”

For a moment, there was complete silence in the room as they all considered the prospect. Fame was a heady prospect. What man had never dreamed of his deed on everyone’s lips, his name spoken with the awe and admiration usually reserved for gods? Then Laz spoke.

“I seek no legends,” he said, shrugging.  “They do not keep a man or his woman fed. Gold would satisfy me.”

“Me, too,” spoke the other Gaul, Rabinus. Duro privately thought that it was a good thing the man did not seek fame, because he did not seem likely to get it. He was reedy and rat-faced—not the kind of hero who attracted hordes of swooning women and envious men. “You look for glory?” he asked Segovax.

“And freedom,” Segovax nodded. “Though gold would not be refused,” he added, with the closest thing he had given to a smile so far. The other Gaul laughed slyly.

“You have a woman, then?”

“Aliana. Soon to be my wife—sooner if I were to return with gold and the rudis.”

The tenderness in Segovax’s eyes was startling. Almost despite himself, Duro thought of Emia. Her green eyes alight with laughter, the sun glancing off her dark brown hair, the sweet fluttering of her body against his. She had seen him off to war with a sisterly kiss on the cheek and words of luck, not love. He had left her with a joke and a playful squeeze of her full breast, not promises of everlasting fidelity. If Duro returned from Rome and fell at her knees, speaking of love and marriage, offering her gold… well, she would probably laugh in his face, and he would not be heartbroken.

“What of you?” Segovax asked suddenly, addressing Duro again. Duro wondered if his face had shown gentleness that spoke of empathy, or amusement that spoke of derision. “You mock thoughts of freedom. Is the brotherhood of gladiators enough?”

“I have a brother,” Duro said dismissively. He wanted the mark, yes, but he would trade every man in the ludus for Agron without hesitation.

“Then what do you desire?” Laz pressed.

Duro could think of no easy answer. He wanted his brother by his side, and his mother absent worry. He desired the Rhine. He desired his mother’s house, their lands, the goats and dogs and sheep and chickens. Home in ever sense of the word. But he also desired the arena, battle, respect. Something… greater.

“Life,” he said casually, leaning his head back against the stone wall and closing his eyes. “I am easily satisfied.”

-

The next morning, Crixus did not intervene when Duro and the other recruits went to take their midday meal, for which he was grateful. The tasks Doctore set had been difficult enough before; they were twice as difficult now, with muscles sore and screaming from the previous day’s exertions. Food would be greatly appreciated.

As he approached the bowl, a gladiator came forth and took the cook’s place. Apparently, though Spartacus had decreed that the recruits were to eat, there was no rule that ensured they would eat  _well_. With a cheerful grin, the gladiator scooped the worst parts of the porridge into Duro’s bowl—the bits that (though impossible to identify as any particular kind of food) yet showed spots of age and rot, and the black crusts that had burned and stuck to the bottom of the pot. Grimacing, Duro expressed his gratitude and turned to go.

“Wait!”

Expecting further humiliation, Duro turned, and the gladiator promptly stuck his hand in the bowl. He dug around for a moment, ignoring Duro’s perplexed gaze, and promptly held up a small, wriggling white bug. With a triumphant noise, he fed it to a pigeon that sat placidly beside him on the table. Duro hadn’t noticed it before.

“Fuck, I wanted that,” he said in a voice heavy with sarcasm. He immediately regretted it, when the gladiator looked up with a kind of surprised outrage that spoke of retribution.

“Pity then, that miserable shits like you don’t get what you want. But I’ll be sure to piss in it next time, to see you satisfied,” he added with a tone of highly exaggerated concern. Duro suppressed a groan with a smile and a brave, careless laugh, and walked away.

The other recruits followed him to the back of the room, some grumbling about the gladiator’s promise. Duro was sure that dirty looks were shot at his back, but he ignored them in favor of food. As he ate, the Syrian cripple approached their group.

“That is Auctus,” Ashur said with a cheery smile. “A mediocre gladiator, but one with many years’ experience and some accompanying respect. When I was in your place, absent brand, he really did piss in the porridge—and even the much-heralded Crixus ate, and thanked him for the meal!”

Some of the recruits snorted, diverted by this presentation of their former champion; Duro, who was reluctant to show Ashur encouragement, remained silent. There had been men—not many, but some—in their village like Ashur. They had been spurned by members of their own class, and so preferred playing the mentor to the young and untested, and the supplicant to the older and more powerful. Agron had not trusted them, and Duro had never been steered wrong by his brother’s instincts.

Segovax, too, did not seem amused by Ashur’s remarks. For all his emulation of Spartacus, it appeared that he was just as reverent of the men who had held the title of champion before him. Even to the recruits, it was obvious that Ashur had never and would never be champion.

“And did you eat, too?” Segovax asked. “Or did foolish starvation and disrespect lead to that?”

He nodded at Ashur’s leg brace. For one second, Duro saw black rage twist Ashur’s features. It was gone in a heartbeat and replaced by another oily smile.

“The odds are 2 to 1 that you will receive the mark of the Brotherhood,” he said pleasantly. “Several men have put money on you. Me, I am not so sure. Stupidity often prevents brute strength from success.”

“What about the rest of us?” Duro said before he could stop himself. His mother often criticized him for gambling too freely—and indeed, Duro relied more on instincts than sense sometimes—but he knew how to read odds, and he had an uncanny knack for judging fights.

“3 to 1 on Laz, 5 to 1 on Duro, and 7 to 1 on Rabinus. Five gladiators have bet on Segovax, three on Laz, and one each on Duro and Rabinus. It is no personal slight,” he said to Duro and Rabinus apologetically. “But many have recently lost wagers. They can bet only on one man, and common sense prefers the fighter with an enormous cock and the patronage of a rich woman whom Dominus is attempting to impress.”

Duro snorted.

“Either I have been greatly deceived as to a gladiator’s purpose in the arena, or that is no advantage at all.”

“You do not know many rich Roman women,” Ashur laughed heartily. The sound set Duro’s nerves on edge.

“Who has bet on me?” Rabinus demanded. He already looked drained from the day’s exertions, Duro noticed, and there was anxiety written on his face.

“Lydon. And Auctus on Duro.” Ashur paused for a brief moment, and spoke slowly. “Auctus has an eye for talent. He was one of the first to favor Crixus, and was only a day over the bet on how long it would take Spartacus to fight his way out of the pits—but do not be too encouraged. Given a second decision, he would have placed coin on that poor fuck.”

He jerked his thumb at the stiff, bloody body of the recruit Segovax had killed. Duro forced himself to look. He had never liked corpses. Blood was no issue, but corpses made the hair on the back of his neck rise and his stomach ache uncomfortably. That was a fact he would hide until his dying day. Agron had known. Agron had known everything.

Still, Duro had the disconcerting idea that, given the chance, his brother would not have bet on him. Agron had never liked to see Duro fight. Whether that was his protective instinct, or doubts about whether Duro would come out alive, Duro had never been sure.

He ate his porridge and looked thoughtfully at Auctus, who was now feeding his bird bread crumbs. The gladiator knew nothing about him. But still, Duro wondered…

***

Agron had never been underground before. He decided that he liked it even less than the ship.

His arms were chained to the wall, and he watched dully as blood dripped from the boards of the ceiling and onto his legs. Sometimes the wood shook with the stomping of boots, or the heavy thud of a falling body, and sand spilled through the cracks.

He was going to die. Agron had never expected to know his own death in advance. Had he given the idea thought, he would have expected it to occur in battle, or a tavern fight, or else of some illness or accident. The former two were preferable, of course—quick, unpredictable, even somewhat respectable. Guiltless. Sure, in the seconds between receiving the death blow and perishing from it, Agron would undoubtedly have thought of those he would be leaving behind. It was different, though, than this, where he was reduced to studying the pattern of blood and sand on skin to distract his thoughts from that which he loved most, that which it was most painful to remember.

Duro. His mother. The Rhine.

He recalled little of the moments surrounding his separation from his brother, and none of it clearly. Duro had tried to keep them together. Agron had said something, probably feverishly nonsensical, that had caused Duro’s expression to crumble and set desperation alight in his eyes. The memory was physically painful. In their last seconds together, Agron had disappointed his brother. That left a bitter taste in his mouth.

His mother, gods be thanked, would never know. She would remember him as she had last seen him—standing tall, sword at his hip, shield at his back, and oaths of filial and fraternal piety on his lips. He had often been told that he was spitting image of his father. A man of the Rhine. For all she knew, he had died that way. And he would remember her as he last saw her: a woman of the Rhine, too old and world-weary to defend her home with steel, but not yet lacking in strength. Her dark hair shot through with gray, hanging in a heavy plait between her shoulderblades, her black eyes (Duro’s eyes, older and harder) shining with pride and her mouth set with worry. She had barely reached his shoulder, but such was her personality that Agron had almost always felt the need to lean down or bend his knees in deference. He had not, that last day. He had been conscious of his position, and strived to be worthy of it.

Agron had always had very strict ideas of what it meant to be of his tribe. He could not remember a time in which he desired to be different from his mother: firm and bold, clever and selfless. To hide dislike behind snide smiles and oblique remarks was not tolerated; neither was turning one’s back on one’s fellows, or laziness. Some of these lessons had been explicitly taught. Others had been learned while Agron trotted after his mother through the village, observing her companions and carrying much-needed supplies, or when he left the house under her watchful gaze, with the dogs and the sheep in tow. He had learned, and taught Duro with all the wisdom older siblings possess when speaking to younger.

Slowly, the disconnected thoughts began to blur together. Agron thought of Duro jumping into the river at its widest point and laughing when the dogs followed. Mama teaching him stories of extended family he had never met and a father he had never known. Mama cradling a young, sick Duro in her arms.

Agron realized that he was crying. The grime on his legs had not proved distraction enough; he could no longer tell flesh from bloodied ground.

“Fuck,” he said out loud. There was despair and desperation in his voice. “FUCK,” he repeated in a hoarse shout. He wanted to be enraged. He wanted to walk in the arena with his head held high. He wanted to play the barbarian they expected of him. He wanted to be more savage, more bloodthirsty, crueler than any they had seen before.

The boards directly over his head rumbled so heavily that he knew a dead or dying gladiator had fallen there. The faint roar of the crowd grew louder, more tangible, and suddenly a thick spurt of scarlet blood fell from the ceiling and onto Agron’s face. He bared his teeth.

-

Two guards were sent to bring him to the arena. As he approached the entrance, he squinted; even the pre-noon sun was white hot after his time underground. Someone shoved a blunt sword into his hand, and a small shield that was nearly eaten away with rust. He frowned, and one of the guards noticed his displeasure.

“Had you not accosted your dominus, you would have better weapons,” he sneered. “But now you are the meanest mockery of a gladiator, with weapons deserving of one.”

The guard spat at Agron’s feet, but Agron merely rolled his eyes and faced forward. He had heard much of what made a gladiator, and in his opinion they were overrated. Gladiators were men. Some held honor—Agron always would, no matter what was asked of him—but none were gods. They had the same capacity for virtue or ice as any other man. Their only true value lay in their ability to kill.

He hefted his sword to inspect the blade. It was absent edge, but that did not concern him. Agron was good at killing, too.

He did not hear the words that announced him, but he heard the roar of the crowd increase in the volume just before a rough hand shoved between his shoulderblades. He stumbled out on unsteady feet, relic of several weeks at sea followed by days of inactivity, and heard the crowd jeer.

Agron’s eyes watered at the blinding light. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a dark red blur, and before he could react, overripe food splattered over his face like cold, congealing blood. More trash followed, but he was determined not to let his weakness show. He shook his head carelessly to clear his vision, and stepped into the center of the arena, shoulders squared, standing tall.

The arena was square, and small enough that he could see into the top box, where the rich and influential sat. They all wore expensive, dyed silk and sat sipping drinks as they looked him over.  Some of them laughed. Others looked bored, and merely gestured for their slaves to pour more wine, or fan them faster. Some of them curled their lips in disgust, but Agron didn’t let that discourage him. The feeling was mutual.

One man, his face lined with age, was standing. He gestured for the crowd to calm down, and indicated the arena’s entrance again.

“I give you—Timaeus! Dimachaerus!”

A gladiator emerged from the darkness, his head bare and two swords—so sharp that they sliced through the air—in his hands. The crowd screamed its approval, and he grinned, lifting his arms as though he were already victorious. Agron snorted. The man was half his size. Heavily armored, yes, with greaves and copper shoulder guards, but his fucking head was bare, and he bore no shield. Trebius underestimated Agron, or else he had had no say in the choice of executioner. Agron gripped his sword and lifted it so that the dull steel caught his opponents eye. He would not be the only one to die this day.

Perhaps someone called begin. Agron did not hear them. He was trapped in his own mind, the way he always felt when he was ready for a fight. Some of the men in his village called him a berserker, and said it was rage, but it never felt like rage. Agron knew how anger felt. This felt more like devotion. As though he were giving his body to the gods, and in exchange he could see with their eyes. He was acutely aware of his own strength, and as he surveyed the gladiator with cold eyes, he could see the other man’s weaknesses.

The gladiator smirked at him. Agron smiled and lunged.

The first strike came from above, and the gladiator held out one sword to block him. At the last second, Agron turned in a tight circle, avoiding his opponent’s second blade, and knocked the butt of his sword against the man’s ribs. The breath left the gladiator’s lungs in a shocked gasp, and Agron flashed a feral smile. He would not be underestimated again.

His bare feet slipped on the sand as he moved backwards, crouching low to present less of a target. The gladiator followed, striking with first one sword, then the other. Agron held forth, waiting behind his near-stationary shield, until he felt one blow slip, just a fraction of an inch, betraying weakness. He burst out from behind his shield and stepped forward. A sharp blade slipped across his arm, drawing blood, but he paid it no mind. His focus was on the other one, the blade clutched in the gladiator’s weaker hand. His sword hit true, knocking the weapon from the man’s hand.

The gladiator jumped back quickly, hiding behind his remaining blade. Agron batted the sword aside and smashed his shield into the man’s face, three times, until he heard bones and teeth break. The butt of his opponent’s sword cracked against his head, and he stumbled back. Blood flowed slowly down his face and stung his cracked lips.

His breath came heavy, and he squared his shoulders, his weapon and his shield held loosely in each hand. The gladiator’s face was smashed and bloody to the point of being unrecognizable, but Agron swore that he could see fear in it. The crowd knew nothing; some of them were groaning, some cheering, most still expecting Agron to die. Only the gladiator had truly felt the strength behind the blows. Sweat coated his brow.

Slowly, his eyes fixed on his opponent, Agron bent down to pick up his opponents lost sword, throwing away the dull stick he had been giving. He used the blade to lightly tap his shield, thinking of the Rhine.

With a savage roar, the gladiator ran forward. Agron stepped out of his way and stabbed the sharp blade through the back of his neck. The gladiator fell and Agron set on him again. He rose with his sword dripping red.

The blood was singing through his veins. He turned towards the box and held out his sword as evidence of the deed.

“Send me another,” he called out, in his home tongue.

They had thought him a savage from the Rhine. He proved them right. Let them learn, now, what men of the Rhine were truly capable of.

For some moments, there was no response but the gleeful screams of the crowd. Finally, the same old man stood, a benevolent smile on his face.

“People of Picintia! Today, man decided that the slave before you should die. Justitia has proclaimed otherwise. And so, after conferring with good Levitius and our honored lanista, Titus Rubellius we have decided to grant…” He paused dramatically. “Life! A slave entered the sands. Watch now as a gladiator leaves them!”

Agron stood, dumbfounded, as two guards approached from either side, wary of his crimson-stained weapon, and began to lead him back into the darkness.  _Life_? The word was foreign to the tongue. Had he lost his senses?

He laughed dully when sword and shield were wrested from him, to be replaced by iron chains at his wrist—they were stronger, this time, and unrusted. No, his senses remained. He remembered well how those chains felt.

He was to live. As a gladiator.

He had little idea of what that meant, of course. He had learned Latin because of the trade opportunities. Agron’s family usually ended up with more wool and milk than anyone had a need for, and they had been pleased to exchange it for news and supplies. Cloth and livestock—that was all he had ever talked to Romans about, until the day those fucking Gauls had asked for assistance in driving off the invaders. In the ensuing ambush, Agron and Duro had been captured, and that was when he became familiar with the Latin words for death, blood, honor, slave, and sword.

This was the first time he had ever seen a gladiator himself, and he had to admit that he was less than impressed. The man had fought with no great skill, and only passing bravery. Perhaps the others would provide more of a challenge. If not, perhaps Agron could simply kill them all.

uddenly, his heart leapt. If Agron performed well in Picintia, perhaps he would earn enough coin or favor to search for Duro.  _He_  knew nothing of Capua, but others might. And he had heard enough on the road to ascertain that Picintia had only a minor arena, nothing compared to the ones in Capua or Rome. If Agron proved himself a more competitive gladiator than those in this arena, he might be sent to Capua himself, where the search would go easier.

The only danger was that he would be sent to face his brother himself, but Agron was not worried about that. He was prepared to die.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, after walking with the beams and position training (which involved doing the  same fucking swing over and over again a thousand times, enough to try Duro’s patience to the breaking point), they finally progressed to sparring. At first, Segovax had the honor of fighting Spartacus, until Crixus thought to issue his own challenge. Duro watched with the rest of the men as the Gaul fell, weak as a child, to the sands. He almost pitied him.

The pity lasted only a short, moment, however. After Crixus was returned to the medicus, Doctore paired Duro with Spartacus. Duro had once thought that he could easily best the champion, with Agron by his side. He was now forced to admit that, without Agron, he presented poor challenge. Over and over again, he was disarmed or knocked to the ground, sword poised for a fatal strike. By the time Spartacus declared himself finished, Duro’s skin was a mottled collection of red marks that would soon become bruises. Some were caused by Spartacus’s skill, others his own exhaustion. He had lost grip on his sword more often than he would have liked, and his handy trick of throwing his shield, which had saved him in more than one battle, had born no fruit. Duro’s mood had soured, and he was about to abandon the training sands for the water cache when he heard a voice behind him.

“Have you a deathwish?”

Duro turned to see Auctus watching him, and scowled. Bet or no, the veteran gladiator irritated him. He felt no affection or respect for those who bullied and looked down on initiates, no matter their skill.

“This is not the arena,” he said dismissively.

“Men do not only die in the arena. The walls of this ludus have seen their fair share of blood—mostly from recruits who did not understand that. Take care that you do not join them. Especially when paired with Spartacus; a man newly risen to title of champion must see his title secured.”

The gladiator spoke with derision in his voice. Duro found it difficult to turn from challenge on the best of days, and this was not the best of days.

“It was a wooden sword,” he insisted furiously.

“You doubt that a man armed with such poses threat?” Auctus hefted his weapon. “This is a wooden spear. And if I stab you through the eye—”

The spear moved so quickly that Duro barely had time to lift his shield and stumble back. He swore a half dozen oaths in every tongue he knew as Auctus pressed forward.

“—will you not bleed? Will bones not break?”

As he spoke, he swept Duro’s feet out from under him, hard enough so that purple bruises would emerge on his ankles and possibly never fade. True to Auctus’s word, his bones ached. The blunt tip of the spear touched his throat, and Auctus spoke in a low voice.

“Will you not die?”

Duro looked up and met the gladiator’s dark, cold, distant gaze. He had no doubt that Auctus was capable of killing him, or that he was free to do so. Segovax had killed a recruit with no repercussions, so a gladiator could surely do the same. With each breath, the spear pressed against his throat. It was heavier than it had seemed.

But no, Duro would not die like this. He didn’t know if Auctus truly intended to kill him, but he knew that he did not want to die. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he raised two fingers in  _missio_.

“You’re learning,” Auctus said approvingly. “If I were generous, I would spare your life.”

For one terrifying second, the rough-edged spear dug into the skin of Duro’s throat. Then it rose, hovering inches from his skin, and lifted away. Duro hastened to his feet. Auctus dug the butt of the spear into the dust, his mouth a hard line.

“The Romans are not generous. _Gladiators_ are not generous. You must fight each match as though it were your last, or it will be.”

Duro nodded sourly, and Auctus stared at him for a long moment. His gaze made Duro uncomfortable, but he couldn’t look away. He lifted his chin defiantly, and Auctus’s eyebrow twitched, either in amusement or contempt.

“Auctus!”

The moment was broken by the bark of a harsh voice. Both men turned to see Doctore watching them with an appraising gaze. Doctore met Auctus’s look, and nodded. Auctus looked surprised.

“Doctore wishes for me to spar with you.”

“A great fucking honor,” Duro muttered, and the gladiator gave him a poisonous look.

“He thinks you might survive. We shall see. Not that it matters, but where do you hail from?”

“East of the Rhine.”

“Unconquered lands. You were taken in combat, then, not sold?” Duro nodded tightly. “Pity. That will be difficult to overcome.”

“I know how to fight,” Duro said, gritting his teeth. Auctus raised an eyebrow and settled into a fighting stance.

“Show me.”

Duro charged, sword raised. Before he knew what had happened, the spear jabbed into his back, and his muscles spasmed. He stumbled.

“Never run at a faster opponent unless you know what you’re fucking doing. Never run at an opponent at all if you don’t know how to manage your own weight. Loosen your elbows. And for fuck’s sake, correct your grip. A gladiator who drops his sword in training will never reach the arena. Again.”

The orders grated on Duro’s nerves, but he couldn’t deny the fact that Auctus had more experience in the arena, even if he fought with a different weapon. And the mistake with his grip was one he had made against Spartacus as well. Duro adjusted it, and prepared to fight again.

This time, Auctus was the one who ran forward. His spear dove in from above Duro’s head, and he hastily raised his shield to block it. At the last second, he saw the unnatural angle, and realized that it was a feint, but he had no time to correct himself; he leapt backward, bringing up his sword to counter the blow. Auctus pressed forth, and his weapon drove into Duro’s stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. Duro fell on his ass.

“Never retreat from a faster opponent unless you know what you’re fucking doing. Watch the body, not the weapon. Get off your back. Never—”

Duro couldn’t help himself. With a rough cry of rage, he leapt up and dove forward. For a split second, he relished the way the gladiator’s eyes widened in shock, before Auctus spun away, the sword barely slipping against his side. As he came out of the dodge he attempted to strike, but Duro’s shoulders were squared and his footing sure, and he batted it away easily. He charged forward again and twisted, meaning to strike Auctus’s stomach.

As his arm fell, though, his sword hit only air, and Duro’s eyes widened. Already he knew that he had just repeated an old mistake. His feet shuffled quickly, attempting to organize himself again, but before he could properly launch attack, the spear hit him solidly in the back. His knees hit the sand, yet again, and Duro grimaced. He would have bruises for that.

His bones ached when he stood and retrieved his weapon, feeling rather like a young pup with tail between legs. When he finally mustered up the courage to turn around, pride thoroughly battered, he was startled to see that Auctus was watching him calmly, with no hint of scorn.

“Anger can be useful in the arena,” he said, leaning against his spear. “But it must be wielded properly. Learn the technique, and then use anger to fuel it.”

Duro nodded stiffly. After a brief pause, he settled into one of the positions Doctore had shown them earlier—feet shoulder width apart, knees bent, elbow loose, sword held at a careful angle. He glanced down to adjust himself, and then waited.

“You probably won’t make it to the arena,” Auctus said offhandedly as he moved into the same stance. “But I will not have it be said that my tutelage is what led you astray. We shall see.”

Without another word, he stepped forward with a sharp cut of the spear. Duro blocked him, swept the weapon aside, and struck. Auctus blocked it, but it was closer than before, and the impact of wood set Duro’s teeth on edge. He couldn’t help but grin, and for a fraction of a second, he thought he saw Auctus grin back.

***

The guard led Agron to a small room deep in the bowels of the arena. He was left to ponder his fate for only a few minutes before he heard Trebius’s voice echoing through the hall.

“Your dominus makes a mistake,” the slaver grumbled as the door swung inward. “I’ve never seen a slave so unruly. Mark my words—he will prove untrainable.”

The man he accompanied was also a slave, as evidenced by his collar, though his clothes were finer than either Trebius’s or Agron’s. While his shoulders were properly bowed and his expression blank, there was something in the slave’s ease of movement and bold gaze that would have misled Agron under other circumstances. It was not a gladiator’s calculated arrogance, but the arrogance of a slave who knew his, and his master’s, position.

Agron didn’t like him.

“It is not my place to judge,” the slave said evenly, looking up at Agron curiously. “My dominus considers patronage only; Rubellius would oversee tutelage.”

“Rubellius’s drunk Doctore, you mean,” Trebius snorted. He waved a careless hand. “I give no shit. Let rich men waste their money. Call a guard if he tries to kill you.”

He pinched the slave’s ass and departed. For a moment, the slave’s lips seemed to press tightly together, but within seconds he was neutral again.

“Who the fuck are you?” Agron asked.

The slave eyed him with a cold civility. His words were sharp.

“I am called Tiberius, body slave to Levitius, the man who seeks your purchase. You would do well to school your tongue, gladiator. Come with me.”

Tiberius turned and disappeared through the maze of corridors. Agron followed him hastily, surprised that the slave knew the inner workings of the arena so well. Arrogance or no, he could be a useful resource.

“I am—” he called ahead, thinking to introduce himself, but Tiberius interrupted him.

“—Lupinius. I know.”

Agron frowned, confused. Had the slave mistaken him for someone else? Another prisoner? They turned into a rough-stone room with a water bath in one corner, benches, and copious jars. Tiberius began to search among them.

“That is not my name.”

“It is the name Dominus has given you; he does not favor barbaric words. I was not born Roman, yet I am called Tiberius. It is not a difficult adjustment to make. Besides, your name is an honor. The founders of Rome were suckled by a wolf, you know.”

Without warning or ceremony, the slave stepped forward and poured cleansing oil over his shoulder. Agron started, and Tiberius looked up at him with mild annoyance.

“I can fucking clean myself,” Agron protested.

“Artlessly,” Tiberius retorted. “You are not fit to enter the pulvinus like this, yet what gladiator emerges from the arena clean? It is a mark of cowardice.”

“I did  _not_  emerge from the arena clean.”

“As all of Picintia could see,” the slave said primly.

Agron laughed out loud, and Tiberius looked up at him suspiciously. Agron did not feel the need to justify himself. Something in the slave’s voice—his prudish distaste for the mess of killing—struck him as funny. Perhaps it was only the circumstance.

“You do not care for the games?”

Tiberius shrugged. Carefully, he used the strigil to scrape away oil and dirt, while leaving blood splatter untouched.

“There,” he said with some satisfaction. “You see?”

“A man’s blood is not decoration,” Agron grumbled.

“Everything is decoration: blood, sweat, slaves and names. Rome is not like Greece. There is a fine line between elegance and ostentation, which no man dares cross, and so we must make use of every little detail.”

He continued to wash Agron with an intimacy, and yet detachment, that Agron found unsettling. Being a gladiator was no great hardship; he had a knack for display, and of course fighting was second nature. Being a slave was a different matter, and one that would take some adjustment. Even to another slave, it seemed, he was little more than furniture.

“You speak as a Roman,” he said.

“As you shall, one day, if you wish to live. To know their minds is to know your own use, and to know your use is to be useful. Of course, a gladiator has only one use—killing—but to do it well brings honor to the House of Levitius.”

“More honor than would cleanliness?” Agron asked sardonically.

“Perhaps,” the slave said. There was irritation in his wide, steady gaze, and Agron felt like a scolded child. He cleared his throat and looked away.

“Who is Tiberius, then, that you were given such name?” he asked.

“A former consul of the senate,” Tiberius said with a hint of pride in his voice. “He kept Scipio supplied in the taking of Carthage. I was given this name when appointed body slave.”

The slave looked pleased, and Agron was caught in a wave of revulsion. To be enslaved was bad enough, but to take pride in it? To accept the stripping away of your own history and gladly accept the offering of a new identity… that was something he would never do.  _Remember Duro_ , he swore silently.  _Remember Mama, and the lands east of the Rhine. You fight and die for them, nothing else_.

“There,” Tiberius said, interrupting his thoughts. He stepped back. “You see? A fierce warrior, and now fit to be seen.”

Agron looked down at himself and acknowledged it to be true. Every inch of his skin was either gleaming or covered in congealing blood. He presented an imposing figure, albeit a slightly ridiculous one.  _Real_  warriors did not look like this, and Agron couldn’t help but feel nauseated when he recalled the outcome of battles at home. Once, Duro had looked so mangled and gory that Agron had knocked over two men in an attempt to reach him before realizing that his brother had simply not had a chance to clean himself. After that, both brothers had taken more care.

Agron was not used to playing a part.

He felt eyes on him, and looked up to find Tiberius watching his face. There was more pity and empathy in his expression than Agron would have believed a moment ago.

“It becomes easier, after a while, if you forget that you were once anyone different,” Tiberius said quietly. There was a pause, then he spoke in a brisk voice. “Come. Dominus awaits.”

They walked underneath the stands, and Agron glanced up at the ceiling. It sounded as though every person in the arena was stamping their feet as loudly as possible, and he marveled that it didn’t fucking collapse. When they finally reached the stairs to the pulvinus, however, the sound quieted. The rich did not conduct themselves in such a manner.

As they ascended the stairs, he noticed that Tiberius grew less proud, less impatient looking. A curious kind of blankness overtook his face when they entered the pulvinus, and he slipped back to his dominus’s side without a word to Agron. A pair of gladiators was locked in combat; Tiberius waited until mercy was granted, and then leaned down and whispered in his master’s ear.

“Ah, yes, my new acquisition,” the man said, standing.

He sipped from a goblet of wine and stepped closer. His eyes raked over Agron’s body, observing, and Agron tried to be subtle about doing the same. The man was not young—years and bitterness had lined his face—but his black hair spoke of no great age, either. His clothes were richer than any Agron had ever seen, green silk embroidered with white and gold thread, and he wore a heavy ring on each hand. Tiberius stood beside him, his head modestly bowed. Every few seconds his eyes flickered up, searching his master’s face for approval.

Agron almost jumped when Levitius touched him. The Roman’s hand was thin and soft, and the touch made his skin crawl. It pressed against his chest and then drifted across his shoulders, where he paused to rub one finger in the blood. Tiberius’s art was well appreciated.

“A fine specimen, however barbaric,” Levitius concluded finally. “Though I am no expert. What say you, Rubellius? Could you make this savage into a gladiator?”

Another man, squatter and with more grey in his hair, stood and looked Agron over with the brisk efficiency of one well-versed in such a line of work.

“My Doctore could make your body slave into a gladiator, Levitius, although I grant the task would not be as easy as this! This one is tall, strong, and has fighting experience. Properly trained, he would be a jewel in any master’s crown.”

“Then let us see him polished, to mutual advantage,” Levitius said cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder. “Shall we discuss price? Three denarii towards purchase, an additional one for each month’s training?”

After some minor haggling, a deal was struck. Agron wondered briefly whether he should be insulted at how much his life was worth, but within moments he was shoved back down by the stairs. The lofty scent of rich perfume clung to his skin, and he missed the salt of the sea.

***

Duro grit his teeth and willed himself to focus only on the enormous wooden beam in his arms. It was hardly heavier than the beams the recruits had been carrying for the past few days, but he wished it were, so that it served better distraction. As it was, his gaze kept wandering to a different plank—the one soaked in Segovax’s blood.

He had not liked Segovax, of course, but he could not hide the fact that the recruit’s ordeal had shaken him. Dominus had wished to make it abundantly clear than any slave who sought to do harm to the House of Batiatus would suffer. Every second of the torturous investigation had taken place in the open air of the training grounds. Even some of the veteran gladiators had seemed perturbed by that, though others had merely started placing more bets, exchanging coin as a way to distract themselves. And now the crucifix…

Duro had not been born a slave, nor had he grown up in a world where the crucifix was enshrined in such fear and legend that it made every man shiver with terror at the very thought. That dread was not instinctive in him. But he understood.

“Most recruits’ deaths are not so memorable,” Auctus said dryly at Duro’s shoulder. “Yours won’t even come close.”

“Small comfort.”

“Great comfort. Are you not pleased to know that, Fortuna be kind, you will depart for the afterlife intact?”

Duro rolled his eyes as he continued to build the platform. The work was going slowly, with only him, Rabinus, and Laz exerting themselves, but of course none of the gladiators lifted a finger.

“Do you think I will pass the test?” he asked. Auctus shrugged breezily.

“The odds are ever-changing and impossible to predict. If either of the others falls, then your chances of passing rise. If they battle too long, Dominus may prefer to decide your fate quickly. If they achieve glorious victory, and you battle to a draw, or lose, then I doubt Dominus will show mercy. Out of our last batch of recruits, only three passed the test, and only two proved themselves worthy as gladiators.” He chuckled. “There was one stupid fuck who got himself killed inside of five seconds. He was against Barca, the Beast of Carthage, if it means aught to you. It was like watching a boar charge a lion; one stupid and fierce, crashing forward with abandon, the other lying in wait and striking with ease. Luckily I have taught you better, if one word pierced your thick skull.”

With a grunt, Duro slotted the last pole into place. Now all that remained was to lash the platform more securely. Auctus leaned against the support, his arms crossed as he eyed the walls of the ludus. Duro wondered if he was sickened by the crucifixion, or merely trying to discern the wings of dark pigeons against the iron-colored twilight clouds.

“You would say my odds are good, then, outside of my fellows’ influence?”

“I would say that half the men who reach the test die and half live. You can only be in one group or the other, and I would not venture to guess which.”

Duro grinned.

“Is that why you bet on my victory?”

Auctus stiffened and did not look around.

“I’m going to kill that Syrian cunt,” he muttered.

“I doubt he would honor your wager from the grave. Although he may not honor it at all, if he knew that you had taken steps to prepare me.”

He laughed out loud as Auctus stalked away.

An hour later, he was not laughing. The sun had set, and a slow summer chill was beginning to creep through the air. The platform was constructed, and surrounded by tall, flaming torches. Duro stood beside the other recruits, trying not to think. It would do him no good to worry about the outcome. Laz seemed to share his belief, as his face was perfectly calm, but Rabinus was sweating and pale. That was no surprise.

They stood stiffly for a few minutes, surrounded by the gladiators, when Dominus and Domina arrived, with their guest, at the balcony. Dominus spoke a few words of encouragement, of victory, of the glory of the test, and the gladiators roared their approval, but Duro hardly listened. His attention was captured by the corner of the yard where Segovax’s blood was splattered over the sands.

He wondered if the Gaul’s death had improved his own odds. Perhaps Dominus would be more reluctant to lose recruits in the test, having lost the most valuable already. It was a comforting thought, to be sure, but on some level it rankled him. It reminded him of the warriors back home, who had given him credit simply for being Agron’s brother. Agron  _had_  been teaching Duro how to fight, true, but they hadn’t known that, and he had been determined to prove himself outside of his brother’s influence.

Well, Agron was not here, he thought grimly. He would fight and die by his own merits. Terrifying, but fair.

“Hamilcar!” Doctore barked. “Duro! Positions.”

Duro shook off any remaining  doubts and approached the platform, sword and shield in hand. Catcalls and shouts accompanied him, but he did his best to look carefree as he grasped his weapon and faced his opponent.

Hamilcar looked aloof about the whole proceeding. He shot Duro a brief, mocking grin, and Duro tried to remember what he had noticed about the gladiator in training. Not particularly fast, but clever with swordwork and agile. They were a good match; if Duro had more strength, he could win.

“Begin,” Doctore ordered.

Duro jumped forward with wide, cutting strokes, coming first from one side and the other. The motion forced Hamilcar to swing his shield from side to side, so Duro had a clear view of his sword. The moment the gladiator’s arm twisted, ready to thrust back, he was prepared, and he deflected the blade off of his shield with a rusty, ear-splitting screech of metal on metal.

They traded blows for a moment, until Hamilcar’s blade skated over the top of Duro’s shield and traced a line of blood onto his collarbone. Immediately, Duro found himself moving back, turning, almost dancing past his opponent in an attempt to avoid his reach. He could hear noise in the background, but he could not distinguish the voices, or whether they were encouraging or jeering.

The expression on Hamilcar’s face was grim as he attempted to thrust through Duro’s guard again, but Duro had solid ground now, and he merely pressed back with his shield. All of his weight went behind every strike, and at the last moment he rotated his stance slightly, and his opponent’s gladius was knocked from his hand onto the sands below.

Triumph rushed through his veins; rather than pause to gather strength again, he rushed forward, used his shield to deflect Hamilcar’s, and his sword pointed to the man’s throat.

His muscles were still tense, poised for battle, but Hamilcar smiled wryly, and a grin split Duro’s face.

“Duro has fought to victory,” Dominus called from the balcony. “He has passed the test.”

There was an approving roar from the gladiators. Duro and Hamilcar laid down their weapons, and the gladiator grasped him by the arm.

“Well fought,” he muttered. Duro echoed the praise, and dismounted from the platform. He moved to stand halfway between the gladiators and the other recruits. He was conveniently close to Auctus, who thumped him on the back.

“Five denarii to me, then. Gratitude,” he said with a crooked grin. It was the most pleasant expression Duro had seen on his face thus far, and he worked to conceal his own glee.

They turned to watch the remaining recruits. Rabinus was next. He was spitted at the end of Rhaskos’s sword within mere moments of taking to the platform, and Duro averted his eyes with a frown. The men with whom he had arrived had a disturbingly high rate of death. He sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving to the gods that he had been spared such a fate. They had done precious little for him, lately, but that  _little_ may have been the only thing standing between him and death.

Laz fought an extended, pitched battle with Varro that ended in a draw, though Auctus remarked that he thought it possible for Laz to have won, if it had continued. Dominus came down from the balcony for the branding.

Duro eyed the branding iron with more apprehension than he had had for the test. The fear of fire had been instilled in him from an early age, through very practical means, but Laz looked at it with absolute disdain, which he tried to imitate. Together, they knelt before their dominus and held out their arms.

“Your life now promises meaning,” Batiatus announced. “Swear it to me. Recite the sacrementum gladitorum.”

“I commit my flesh, my mind, my will to the glory of this ludus, and the commands of my master, Batiatus. I swear to be burned, chained, beaten, or die by the sword in pursuit of honor in the arena,” Laz and Duro recited in unison.

There was a pause, and then Batiatus pressed the branding iron to the inside of Duro’s arm. He held it there for a few moments as the skin bubbled and burned, and Duro bit the inside of his cheek to keep any sound of pain from being released. The process was repeated with Laz, and they looked up to see Batiatus smiling down at them benevolently.

“Welcome to the Brotherhood.”


	4. Chapter 4

There were perhaps ten other gladiators in the ludus, of varying races and sizes. Agron was the tallest by some inches, and one of the few who still appeared young and mostly unscarred. He glanced down at the thin line on his chest, still surrounded by raw, pink flesh, and frowned.

Doctore looked him up and down, his watery eyes narrowed, and shrugged.

“I’ve done better with worse,” he said in a reedy voice.

The scent of wine hovered on his breath, and Agron’s heart sank. He had no doubt of his own fighting skill, but he had been hoping for a teacher who could at least marginally improve him. It appeared that Trebius’s quip about his new doctore being a drunk was not simply spite.

“Lupinius showed promise in the arena,” Dominus said impatiently. “And Levitius is eager for him to do well. See it done.”

Doctore nodded gravely, and without another word the Roman turned his back and left.

“Sword,” Doctore barked. A slave walked up quickly, carrying a wooden sword that he pressed into Agron’s hand. “Take position.”

The gladiators formed a long line, swords in hand, and Agron joined them. He stood at the end of the line, besides a bald Nubian with broad shoulders and barrel-like legs. The practice sword looked like a toy in his hands, and Agron glanced down at his own. It was too light to build strength and too short for his reach.

“First strike,” Doctore ordered, and the gladiators moved as one, with the weary-but-practiced air of men who had heard the same command a thousand thousand times. The movement was a simple cut from left to right. Agron imitated them easily. “Second strike.” Parry and strike to the side. “Third strike.” Retract and thrust.

Again: “First strike. Second strike. Third strike.”

For the first few repetitions, Doctore strode among them, occasionally grunting insults or praise, and rough handling Agron into the proper positions until his movements matched those of his fellow gladiators. After that, though, he retreated. From the sound of his voice, Agron guessed that he was sitting at one of the tables in the shade of the ludus. From the occasional pauses between commands, Agron assumed that he was drinking again.

Once before, he had had a teacher who had believed in such repetition. Garro had insisted that all of the boys under his tutelage practice the simple, basic patterns of fencing for several days, sometimes weeks, before they were allowed to learn new ones, to combine the motions, and to truly fight. That style had irritated him then, when Garro had scrutinized their every muscle to ensure they learned properly. Now, with Doctore not even watching and half the gladiators barely bothering to swing their sword, it soured his mood beyond repair.

Eventually, Doctore’s voice ceased to ring. A few gladiators looked around, and discovered that he had retreated into the ludus, or perhaps left to meet with Dominus in the villa. It made little difference where he had gone, only that he was gone. The line broke almost immediately. A handful of men divided into pairs and began sparring; the others retired to the water cache, or the tables in the corner of the yard. Dice were brought out.

Agron stood around awkwardly for a moment. He did not like to be alone; he had little practice with it. When he had first began attending lessons, yes, but after that Duro had almost always been there. He looked around, avoiding eye contact, and finally decided to approach the wooden stakes along the wall. Again he began the repetitious movements of the first form. He thought back to Garro’s instruction, all those years ago, and began to alternate. First Doctore’s instruction, and then Garro’s, over and over again until his muscles ached and his mind dulled.

“Our new recruit is diligent,” a voice grunted.

Agron paused and turned to the dice table, where five men sat, looking at him with various expressions of hostility.

“Doctore gives no shit if you train or not.” The gladiator who spoke was the one whom Agron had stood beside in the line; he held himself with an air of authority. Agron shrugged.

“I do not train for any man’s amusement,” he said shortly. The gladiator snorted.

“Wrong.”

Too late, Agron remembered the crowd, to whom his very survival was amusement. He shrugged again and returned to the pallas.

“I am tired of these fucking recruits,” the voice continued behind his back. “Little boys who stroll into a ludus and thinks it makes them men.”  
  
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Agron grit his teeth and employed such force that the entire pallas shook when sword met wood.

“Barbarians, Uxoris,” a dry voice interjected. Agron guessed that that was the tall, thin gladiator who sat next to the first, with brown hair and strikingly pale grey eyes. He would not have guessed that such a man would survive ten minutes in the arena, but his face was decorated with the scars of many battles. “A Roman would know his place among gladiators, but what barbarian can admit his own worthlessness?”

There was the smack of skin on skin, and some of the other gladiators chuckled.

“You forget that I was once a barbarian, Aulus,” Uxoris said with a snort. “Though I cannot see how. It is not Roman blood that makes a man, but Roman courage. Something most poor fucks are incapable of having.”

Agron could no longer help himself. He turned around and stalked towards the table. That close, he stood over Uxoris by some inches, though the gladiator glared at him with such intense dislike that he doubted it mattered.

“We are in agreement, then,” Agron spat. “In my tribe, a boy becomes a man when he first spills Roman blood, and the fucking sight of him causes Roman courage to flee.”

“The whelp does not know his place,” Uxoris said in a low, dangerous growl.

 _I know my place_ , Agron thought.  _Far from here_.

He spat at the gladiator’s feet, and waited for the punch.

-

It was days before Agron’s bruises faded from that fight. Doctore had heard them and intervened before any lasting damage could be done, but that did not prevent either man from getting in a few good hits. As punishment, Agron was made to carry beams for nigh on three hours, but with every turn he caught sight of Uxoris’s black eye and smirked.

In another ludus, the fight would have earned him some allies, perhaps, but he quickly discovered that such was not the case. Uxoris was one of the most experienced gladiators in the ludus; he had originally fought in Rome, in the great Circus Maximus, before a series of bankruptcies led to his sale to lesser venues. He was respected by all but a few, who approached Agron with sly smiles. He decided on the spot that he would have nothing to do with them, and so he was alone again.

He didn’t mind as much, now. It was easier to be alone out of desire than of necessity.

Agron had been at the ludus for almost a week when he woke up in the morning and realized that he could move. Each previous day, he had woken in a foul mood, unable to find a single muscle that did not scream when he attempted to stand. Now, for the first, time, he could feel the ache of increasing strength, without the accompanying pain. He threw himself into training that day with unprecedented gusto. His arms were stronger, his legs quicker, his mind sharper. Even under Doctore’s lackluster tutelage, Agron could feel himself becoming a gladiator, and the thought brought a wolf like grin to his face.

That evening, as the gladiators retired to the bath, there was a bustle at the door. A stone tablet was hung on the wall, and as Agron approached, he could see chalk writing on it. At the top was written “To fight in the arena tomorrow.”

A jolt of excitement hit him, and he shoved through the crowd. It had been a long time since Agron had read Latin writing, but he knew that his Roman-given name came from the word for wolf—a common one used by Roman soldiers stationed in Germania. He scanned the lists, saw familiar letters, and smiled.

It was about fucking time he joined the ranks of true gladiators.

***

The wooden spear was not sharp, but it hurt like hell when it struck against the brand. Duro dropped his sword, and his legs were swept from under him.

“Ah, fuck,” he swore. “A week on and the mark’s still raw as a whore’s cunt!”

“A week on and you still fight as a whore, on your back,” Auctus countered, jabbing Duro mercilessly in the side.

“Fuck you, too, then,” Duro muttered as he stood, and Auctus laughed at him.

It was tough to keep the grin off of his face. After Duro’s test, Auctus had become much more relaxed and amiable. Teasing, of course, and pressing Duro further in training than he could have imagined previously, but with more friendliness and less condescension than previously. Lately he was even flirtatious. Well, Duro was flirtatious, and Auctus sometimes responded in the same vein, intentionally or not.

“The arena beckons,” Auctus said as Duro took a tighter grip on his sword and struck. “You must fight, not as a man—” the spear slid off of Duro’s shield, narrowly missing his face, “—but as a gladiator. As a god.”

“And must I let something crawl into my ass and die, or is that merely your preference?” Duro quipped as his sword made contact with Auctus’s shoulder. It was a glancing blow, but better than nothing. Auctus grudgingly laughed and Duro smiled to himself.

He was not concerned that comparatively few of his strikes landed, or that Auctus got around his guard more than he should have. Auctus was one of the quickest and most agile gladiator in the ludus. As long as Duro could keep up, and keep proper form while doing so, he was improving. Once, he even managed to use his superior strength to knock away Auctus’s shield, and strike two blows on his thigh and hip, hard enough to bruise.

“Better,” Auctus acknowledged with a crooked grin. “If fortune favors you, you may even live to see the arena.”

“Fuck fortune,” Duro shrugged. “The gods have never been on my side before, and I prefer to live free of their influence.”

Something caught Auctus’s attention over Duro’s shoulder, and he strode forth.

“You say that now, but sometimes their alliance proves useful. Crixus!”

Duro turned around to see the Gaul walking onto the sands, outfitted in proper armor and with his head held high. Auctus and Doctore both approached him with words of greeting, and Crixus acknowledged them. Duro had not thought the two gladiators so close. It seemed mostly the Gauls who worshipped the ground Crixus pissed on, but perhaps he had been there for longer than Duro had thought. He had noticed that Auctus ranked high with the true veteran gladiators, and valued them in return. Of the newer gladiators, Duro was the only one he associated with, which Duro took to be a good sign.

“Take note—a true champion rejoins the Brotherhood,” Doctore announced, and Duro looked down to hide his smirk. A champion who was minutes away from the mines when Dominus changed his mind. What kind of champion was that? Crixus grasped his sword, and half of the gladiators began to rattle their shields and swords. “You will spar with Duro.”

Duro looked up, surprised, and saw the dismay on Crixus’s face.

“The German? The man has not even set foot in the arena,” he grumbled.

“And you have been long absent from it. Prove yourself against the man, and see advancement.”

Crixus nodded reluctantly.

“And who shall face Ashur?” the Syrian asked, and heads turned towards the bowels of the ludus, where he emerged in armor and with sword. Duro couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows. Even he could see the atrophy of muscles that came from long years’ absence from battle. The man could not be serious. “Choose carefully, for I long for blood.”

There was a short dispute, and, to no one’s great surprise, Dominus called Ashur in from the sands. Crixus turned to Duro, grimaced, and stepped forward. Auctus walked with him.

“Try not to kill him,” Auctus said cheerfully to Crixus. “Ashur’s given me good odds on whether he falls in the arena or not—that is, if Ashur is still in the business of bets, rather than blood.”

“Since when have you gambled?” Crixus asked, though his attention was clearly elsewhere. He kept glancing up at the balcony, where Domina and her body slave had remained.

“Since Barca won enough money off your victory to buy Rome. Can a man have no aspirations to wealth?”

Crixus looked Duro up and down, and snorted.

“Off of a half-grown German runt? It would not be advisable.”

“Bold words for one who has been in bed for a month,” Duro shot back. Crixus raised his sword.

“You would do well to remember, pup, that one of us is Champion of Capua—”

“—Is Spartacus here, then?” Duro asked innocently. He had just enough time to hoist his shield as Crixus barreled into him; the Gaul was slower than Auctus, but heavily built, and the impact nearly broke his arm.

He could hear Auctus laughing as he stumbled back, attempting to match blades with the Undefeated Gaul, and let loose a blistering stream of curses.

This was going to be more difficult than he had thought.

-

Agron’s second time in the arena went much as the first. His opponent was another low-standing gladiator, and at first neither held the approval of the crowd. Slowly, Agron won them over. He was stronger, he was quicker, and he had enough of a sporting spirit to draw the match out past its initial speedy conclusion. By the time the other gladiator took his last breath, the crowd was bellowing its approval, the cheers interspersed with calls of Agron’s name.

Well, not his name. But still, it was encouraging.

“Victory well-earned,” Doctore grunted, and Agron’s eager grin faded to a look of affected casualness.

“Gratitude, Doctore.”

He sat down on the wooden bench nearest to the entrance—not because he had any desire to watch his fellow gladiators in combat, but because he had yet to shake his distaste for being underground, and it was the closest area to sunlight. Agron had discovered that only the very bowels of the arena were hewn in stone. The rest was merely on the ground floor, beneath the crowds and the pulvinus, but that was small comfort to a man who had spent half his life out of doors.

Five other gladiators from the House of Titus took to the sands that day, all later than Agron. Three returned victorious, one had earned a narrow defeat, and the last was dragged, bloody and broken, from the sands. Agron nodded to the ones who survived. The gladiators watched him warily, but did not rebuff him.

“Who—” he began to ask, when a voice interrupted.

“Lupinius.”

Agron looked over to find Tiberius, the body slave, waiting for him by the steps, and felt a spike of irritation. He stood and walked over.

“What?” he asked stiffly.

“Dominus requires your presence.”

“Why does he send you?”

“By ‘Dominus’, I mean my master, your patron. He wishes your presence at our villa tonight, to celebrate your victory.”

Agron looked at Doctore warily. He had understood that a patron was a sort of distant benefactor, a man who amused himself by playing god with money and gifts, and basking in the glow that Agron’s victories would provide him; apparently he would be seeing more of the man and his slave than he had believed. Doctore waved him away.

“Dominus will allow it.”

“You are to prepare yourself,” Tiberius said, eyeing the blood and dirt on Agron’s arms with a slight frown. “We depart after the final match.”

The slave turned heel and departed. Agron looked at the other gladiators, who were staunchly ignoring at him, then the back of the retreating slave, and frowned.

-

Livitius had guests for dinner; ten men and women, dining on a meal notable not for its size—Agron’s people consumed food and drink in vast quantities on feast days—but for its sheer cost. Agron was called out an hour into the meal in order to provide, essentially, decoration, and he had been astounded. Exotic birds, cooked and then bedecked with their luxurious feathers again, dozens of dishes set before each person, piles of delicate fruits drizzled with honey, three kinds of wine poured into seemingly bottomless glasses.

He had been led to believe that Picintia was not as wealthy as Capua, which itself paled before the luxury of Rome, but it was hard to believe it when he thought of the coin that had gone into this “simple” gathering. All things considered, he was probably the least expensive thing there, even though the guests appraised him as though he were living, breathing gold.

By the time the late-setting summer sun touched the horizon, though, his guests were gathering their belongings and departing, often with one last comment on Agron’s performance in the arena, and the Roman was standing beside Agron with a seemingly genuine smile on his sour face.

“An excellent affair,” he mused. “Wearying, unfortunately. I think I will retire—ah, but I forget. There is still the matter of your reward.”

“Reward, Dominus?” Agron said, surprised. He had not expected any reward, besides the meager purse his performance had earned him. Surely the Roman could afford to bestow extra gifts upon Agron, but he had thought that the primary benefit of patronage was the patron, not the gladiator. His heart lifted. Perhaps the thought of freedom was not such a hopeless one, after all.

“Of course.” Levitius turned and guided Agron to follow him with a hand on his shoulder. “Our arena in Picintia is modest; a gladiator of your strength is woefully undervalued. I would not see you grow bored with our sands and its prizes.”

They retreated further into the villa, into a small antechamber containing only some couches and a table holding two silver goblets. At the other end of the room was a door, half-open, leading to a bedchamber. Immediately, a cold doom settled into Agron’s stomach.

“Here we are. Tiberius,” Levitius snapped, and the body slave stepped forward, his eyes affixed on the ground and a heavy jug in his hands. At his master’s gesture, Tiberius placed it on the table. “Wine, for your victory,” Levitius said graciously.

“Gratitude, Dominus.”

The slave poured two cups to the brim; Levitius took one, and handed the other to Agron. There was a congenial smile on the Roman’s face, one that Agron didn’t trust. He saw no excuse to refuse, though, so he mumbled his thanks and took a sip.

At the last possible second, Tiberius lifted his gaze, and his eyes met Agron. It was a moment of clarity—for half a heartbeat, the expression of the proud, submissive slave dissolved again. In the face that remained, Agron saw empathy, bitterness, and pity. His entire body tensed at that, wondering at the slave’s thoughts, but the pity rankled him. He looked down, instead, at the cup in his hands, and titled it slightly to let the wine kiss his lips.

Agron knew instantly that this was far better than any he had tasted before. At home, the best local vintages had always been saved for sale, and the wine brought across the river by soldiers looking for trade had been of worse quality—soldier’s fare, not a rich man’s. This wine was strong and incredibly sweet. He took two more sips before he realized his actions, and slowed.

“Good, is it not?” Levitius said.

“Very, Dominus.”

“A proper tribute, for exemplary showing in the arena. I was very pleased to see your victory. I have had little enough experience judging gladiators, but I could tell that you would succeed. Your so-called execution was a phenomenal showing.”

Agron clenched his teeth and hastily drank again to conceal his distaste. His so-called execution had been a last desperate attempt to go to the afterlife with honor. He would not refer to it as entertainment.

“I did what any man would have done,” he said in a stiff voice, trying to affect modesty.

“Any man, yes,” Levitius mused. “Though I doubt the average Roman could wield blade with such skill. Men are built differently in other lands. Barbaric, but that is not always such a fault, is it?”

He reached forward and Agron, unthinkingly, flinched away. There was half a moment of stunned silence, and then he managed to continue the movement in such a way that made it look as though he merely wished to set his goblet on the table. Levitius seemed mollified by that.

“More wine?”

“No, Dominus.”

Agron looked straight ahead. Three fingers grazed lightly over his skin, and he resisted the urge to pull away again. This was different than the last time Levitius had touched him, in the pulvinus. He lingered over Agron’s flesh the way rich men lingered over food and wine. There was nothing calculating in his gaze, nothing stern or critical.

Agron took a deep breath, attempting to calm the frantic beating of his heart, and Levitius made an appreciative sound as the muscles beneath his fingers rose and fell.

“No, not a fault…”

Slowly, the hand traveled lower. With a few deft tugs, Agron’s subligaria was removed, and the Roman began to stroke his cock. Agron swallowed thickly, but otherwise did not move. Levitius did not seem perturbed; he merely continued his efforts, and at one point leaned forward, his hot breath sticky against Agron’s chest, to press a sloppy kiss to his skin.

After a few frantic moments, his efforts began to produce effect. Agron would have said that it was another body Levitius was touching, another cock that rose to his attention, another’s skin that flushed with warmth, but he could not pretend to ignore the fear and repulsive desire that drove the pounding of his heart to reckless paces.

The Roman drew back, a lecherous smile on his lips, and again ran his hand over Agron’s chest.

“I have had too much wine,” Levitius announced, though Agron could see that he was lying. “And yet it would be truly unfortunate to waste such gods-given opportunity. You will have to fuck me, this night.”

Agron tried not to let disgust show on his face. He must have produced some semblance of desire, because Levitius seemed satisfied. He turned, shedding his silk robes, and walked to the bedroom.

For a moment, Agron stood still and watched him go, anger writhing in his stomach. There was no doubt in his mind that he could kill the Roman. He had almost killed Trebius, and that had been when he was weak, and there were witnesses. Now there was no one but himself, and Levitius, and Tiberius—a loyal slave, true, but small and weak and not a fighter. Guards, if there were any, had likely been ordered away to other parts of the house, where they could not hear a noble Roman being fucked by his slave. It would be the easiest thing in the world for Agron to snap his neck and make his escape, then and there. A heavy jug of wine could be a weapon. So could shards of broken clay, or any decorative knives the Roman had in his chambers. He could do it….

But he did not. Agron’s mind raced through possibilities and then dismissed them all. A jug of wine was a poor weapon, and he did not know how many guards there were, and he could not ride a horse or commandeer a chariot, and he did not know where Capua was, and he had no money. Agron of the Rhine would have taken his chances. Agron the slave had different concerns.

 _It becomes easier, after a while, if you forget that you were once anyone different_ , Tiberius had told him. He could not forget. He would not forget, and the anger in his gut curdled into shame. He walked into the Roman’s bedchamber, and did not look back.


	5. Chapter 5

“You fought with some skill, for a German fuck,” Crixus said gruffly at the evening meal. The Gaul had insisted on sitting with Auctus, Rhaskos, and a few other gladiators who had been at the ludus for a number of years. Duro’s presence there seemed to irritate him. He only allowed it because Auctus had casually insisted.

“As if the words of a fucking Gaul had any value on that score,” Duro shot back.

His retort earned him a few chuckles, and even Crixus snorted faintly. His grey eyes were as sharp as steel as they surveyed Duro’s face carefully. He thought of wolves, and kept his chin held high. It was difficult, with a dozen fresh bruises throbbing in time all over his body, but he willed the soreness not to show.

“Play nicely, children,” Auctus said in a bored tone as he tore apart his bread.

“Years ago, if a pup bared his teeth, you would kick them out. Too many blows have softened your head, old man,” Crixus said with a grin. He popped an olive in his mouth and ducked the slap directed at his head. Auctus let out a long string of oaths that even Duro, brother of Agron, had to appreciate.

“… and if you miss the taste of piss so fucking much I would gladly remind you. Shit-eating pigfuck,” he concluded, before calmly returning to his porridge.

Bion, one of the oldest veterans, chuckled.

“You always have been protective of your pets,” he said congenially. “If someone so much as touches one of the bloody pigeons—”

Duro looked sideways at Auctus. He had almost forgotten the bird, but now that it was mentioned he realized that, more than once, Auctus had disappeared during breaks, or sat in the back of a crowd utterly absorbed in something Duro could not see. Pigeons?

“Ah, the pup has not seen the coop,” Crixus said knowingly.

“Fuck off.”

“Take pride—it is the aviary of the gods,” the Gaul said in a friendly, mocking tone.

The other gladiators expounded on the topic, and the conversation only turned to other avenues once Auctus dealt out several punches and a headlock. Immediately after the meal, Duro followed Auctus away from the room and said, “I want to see the birds.”

“Of course you do,” Auctus said with a sigh. He quirked his fingers, telling Duro to follow him, and headed down the corridor towards his room. “It’s nothing, really, just a hobby of mine.”

“Fuck,” Duro said, looking around the room.

In the corner, piled neatly atop and beside each other, were five cages, the rough wooden bars crudely lashed together with strips of leather—the best a man could do, without access to proper tools. There were three or four pigeons in each, cooing softly and ruffling their feathers.

“You caught all of these?”

“Not all,” Auctus shrugged. He bent down to free one bird from its cage. He held it cupped in the palms of his hands and held it out to Duro. Cautiously, Duro accepted it; it sat placidly in his hands, its head slightly bowed. “Those three cages, in the corner, belonged to one of the ludus slaves. I inherited them, you could say, a few weeks ago. The others have always been mine. Some I caught. Some were wounded on the grounds of the ludus, and I cared for them; one or two I took as eggs, or as chicks who fell from the nest. They’re loyal creatures, so they always stayed.”

Duro thought of their dogs at home, and was surprised to find himself blinking back the threat of tears. He averted his gaze. Fuck, he missed home. He had often told his mother and his brother that he wanted to travel, but not like this, alone and with nothing to remind him of home. He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, trying to regain himself. To his alarm, the pigeon took the opportunity to burst from his grasp.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, reaching out with clumsy arms to recapture it. Auctus smiled.

“There is no need; that one’s been with me since he first hatched. I set him loose occasionally—he was gone for three days once—but he always returns.”

This time, though, the bird confined himself to a few circles of the room, before alighting on Auctus’s shoulder. It cooed and thrust its head forward, brushing against Auctus’s cheek. Duro laughed.

“At home, we had dogs,” he mused, reached forward to stroke the pigeon’s head. “They were the closest we had to pets—though they worked, too, of course, herding the goats. When I was a child, my mother’s friend’s hound had pups. We persuaded our mother to take two of them, one for me and one for my brother. Do your birds have names?”

“No. Pietros may have named his birds, but I never bothered.”

“Agron named one pup Storm; she grew up big and vicious and dark as the night.” He laughed self-consciously. “As I said, I was young. I thought it would be very funny to name the other one Goat.”

Auctus laughed, louder, and the pigeon flew away, disgruntled by the movement. Duro realized suddenly that his hand was uncomfortably close to Auctus’s face, and walked back to the cages. Auctus followed.

“You had a dog named Goat.”

“I thought it was clever.”

“You still think it’s clever, don’t you?”

Duro grinned.

“Yes.”

He watched as Auctus removed another pigeon from the cage, this one larger, and with a dark stripe over its face. Auctus sat on the bed and brushed the top of the bird’s head with his thumbs. Duro leaned against the wall and watched.

It was strange, he thought, to see Auctus so personable. The gladiator had been a good friend, helpful and reassuring and funny at times, but he was rarely warm. Duro had thought that that was simply the product of life at a ludus. He had seen the same hardness in Crixus and Doctore, other men who had braved the arena’s sands a hundred times or more, but he had never seen it dropped like this, shrugged off like a winter’s cloak on the first day of spring. The tender expression on Auctus’s face, and the eager interest with which he imparted information, spoke of a side to him that Duro would not have known about merely a day ago.

The fact that that side existed, and that Auctus wanted him to know of it, stirred Duro’s heart.

“Who is Agron?”

Duro blinked from his reverie to find Auctus looking at him, his eyes dark and piercing.

“What?”

“Agron, who named the other pup.”

Fuck. Duro had not mentioned him on purpose. He shrugged and addressed his response to the pigeons.

“My brother.”

“Elder or younger?”

“Elder.”

“That comes as no surprise.”

The grin that split Auctus’s face was genuine, reassuring almost. Duro smiled back, and moved to sit on the bed.

“Is it that obvious that there’s always been someone else concerned with saving my neck?” he said mockingly.

“Too obvious, though I would have thought it a task only the gods could manage. If your brother is worried for you, you can persuade Ashur to send a letter, though I’m sure the fees would be ruinous. I send letters three or four times a year to my mother and sisters, respectable Greek women all, and even there the cripple attempts to cheat me. Contact with a true barbarian of the wilds will be expensive.”

Duro leaned back on the heels of his hands so that Auctus could not see his frown.

“Agron is not in Germania.”

“Where is he?”

“Rome, somewhere,” he said with a shrug. “We were in Capua together, but Dominus refused to purchase Agron because of a measly little wound on his shoulder. As if that fucking matters.”

“Dominus is a better flatterer and politician than a lanista,” Auctus said sharply. Duro’s eyebrows rose.

“Harsh words for a gladiator devoted to the honor of his house.”

“Fair ones, for a gladiator watching the honor of his house fall to ruin. More than one good gladiator has been lost because of  _Quintus_ Batiatus’s desire for popularity, and more than one man given position above his worth.”

Duro leaned forward slightly so he could see Auctus’s face, and tried to hide his smile. The gladiator looked  _exactly_  like his mother when speaking of marriages she disapproved of, or foolish young men come into fortune. The slight purse of the lips—it was unmistakable. Hastily, he redirected his thoughts. They were talking of gladiators, not gossip.

“Do you speak of Spartacus?” he asked finally.

“Spartacus is a valuable asset to the house,” Auctus said cautiously. “But his path to championship has been paved by Batiatus’s good will. Other gladiators, trained by his father, have found themselves valued less of late.” He turned to look at Duro, his gaze considering. “It is possible that Dominus may be able to find your brother,” he said slowly.

The words caused Duro’s heart to stutter. He had not been allowing himself to think of Agron lately, much less of recovering him. He strove to keep his face blank.

“What inspires such a thought?”

“Spartacus. When he arrived, he spoke of a wife stolen into slavery with him, from Thrace. He asked Dominus for aid in searching her—his winnings set to that task.”

“And did he succeed?”

Auctus shrugged.

“He found her. She died before they were reunited.”

“And—” Duro hesitated. “And you believe Dominus would agree to aid me?”

“It will be easier once you have proven your worth.”

“Once I have gained victory in the arena.”

“Yes.”

Duro reached forward and brushed a thumb over the pigeon’s forehead. It shuddered, and his hand fell to Auctus’s for a brief moment. He drew back and stood.

“Gratitude,” he said simply.

Auctus nodded, looking puzzled, and Duro departed. He cocked his head and ran a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. He needed to find Agron. That was the  _only_  thing that mattered. No one else could be trusted.

But…

Agron was going to kill him.

***

Afterwards, Tiberius showed Agron to a room, only a short hallway from Dominus’s. It was small and sparsely furnished, but elegant, with green wallpaper and a soft mattress on a low bed. The slave disappeared before Agron could say a word, for which he was grateful. He didn’t know what to say.

What was he to do? Make casual conversation about being used as a whore? Ask Tiberius if he had ever performed the same office? If he had advice? Or to rant and rage and weep over the injustice of it? He kicked the bedframe viciously, peeved when it didn’t so much as tremble, and fell onto the mattress.

His breath came shaky as he rubbed tiredly at his temples. It could have been worse, he reminded himself. Had he been fucked, he could have been injured—at the very least, he doubted that a Roman master would take enough care with his slave to prevent the telltale signs from occurring. He could hide this from the other gladiators with ease.

This was nothing.  _Nothing_.

He fell back on the bed and closed his eyes.

There were voices outside his door. He waited for them to quiet, but they only became louder as they neared his room. Rising with the intent to intimidate the speakers into silence, Agron approached the door and opened it. Outside stood Tiberius and a girl—no older than fifteen—bearing a tray of food. Both looked around at him, thought the girl’s eyes fell almost instantly.

“Apologies,” Tiberius said after a pause. “Julia did not know that gladiators abstained from meat. She will—”

“There is no need. I have not been long a gladiator.”

Agron accepted the tray, nodding his thanks, and the girl rushed away. His mouth nearly watered at the food before him; it was still a sludgy stew made from scraps, but at least it looked of higher quality than the gruel afforded to gladiators, and the bits of meat were well appreciated. His irritation subsided.

“And this,” Tiberius said, holding up the forgotten amphora. “The last of your reward.”

Agron eyed the wine with distaste. There was little doubt in his mind that he had been summoned to act as Dominus’s reward, not to be the object of one.

“Gratitude, but a day of training after a night of drinking is not an appealing thought.” Tiberius nodded and backed away, and Agron was struck by an idea. “Wait—will you join me?”

Tiberius looked startled, even nervous, and Agron frowned.

“Apologies, I must return.”

“He’s asleep, is he not?”

“Yes…”

Agron was starved for human contact, more so than meat. He hadn’t talked,  _really_  talked, with anyone but Duro in weeks. Now Duro was gone, and the other gladiators in his ludus didn’t give a damn for him, and the only person who seemed desirous of his presence was a Roman with interest in his cock. All he wanted was simple conversation over a cup of wine.

Something of his desperation must have shown on his face, because again he saw that damnable pity in Tiberius’s gaze. The body slave glanced back at his master’s chambers for one second, and nodded.

“For a short while,” he conceded, and followed Agron into the room.

Agron was going to sit on the bed, but Tiberius took a seat by the door, his back against the wall, and he thought it would be rude not to join him. He drank from the amphora of wine—it tasted even richer than it had before, when he had tasted it in less comfortable circumstances—and offered it to his companion. Tiberius lifted a hand to decline.

“You do not drink?” Agron asked, bewildered.

“Unwatered? Never. That is undoubtedly one of my greatest flaws,” he said with a wry smile.

“And one brought about by lack of opportunity?” Agron pressed. It was a shrewd guess, but Tiberius acknowledged it to be true. Agron grinned and adopted his most persuasive voice. “One sip,” he implored. “In honor of my victories, and the promise of more, for the House Levitius.”

He could not prevent a hint of bitterness from tinting his voice at that last, but the shy, genuine smile he was able to coax was worth it.

“To your victories,” Tiberius repeated, reaching for the amphora. He sipped slowly, and handed it back after a mere moment. “Dominus favors you, certainly, to honor a mere gladiator with wine befitting a magistrate.”

“I do not favor him,” Agron said impatiently, eager to change the subject. “But if a rich fool wishes to part with coin and wine, I would not object.”

He drank deeply, and when he lowered the jug, he found Tiberius looking extremely uncomfortable.

“Apologies,” Tiberius murmured. “I do not…”

Agron understood.

“How long have you been body slave?” he asked. Tiberius thought for a moment.

“Six years,” he said finally.

“I am not the first.”

“The first gladiator, yes. The first, no. House slaves are raised differently; we have different expectations of our masters, and our duties.”

“It is no man’s duty to play a whore,” Agron argued, anger flaring in his stomach. He drank again, but it failed to quench the flame.

“Would you call a wife a whore, if she performed the same duty?”

“It is not—the difference lies in choice.”

Tiberius laughed. It was a low sound, and devoid of joy, and shivers crept up Agron’s back. He had not prepared for this, when he had gone off to fight the Romans. He had prepared to die or be wounded, or even captured, but he had not expected slavery to be—this.

“It must be interesting in your land,” Tiberius mused. “Wherever it is.”

“East of the Rhine.”

“It makes no difference.”

“Yes it does,” Agron said loudly, and Tiberius winced. He glanced nervously at the door. “It—it  _fucking_  matters. It is  _all_  that matters.”

 _Duro, Mama, and the Rhine_.

“If you wish,” Tiberius said soothingly. “It matters. I only meant that, outside of Rome, everything is different. It matters not to the Romans  _how_  it is different, only that it is not Rome. In Rome, everyone is a slave to someone, whether or not they would call themselves so. To fathers, husbands, patrons, senators, consuls. To the people. It matters very little. Wives have as little choice as whores, who have as little choice as slaves.”

His voice was perfectly calm, his face serene. He took a long swallow of wine, and Agron tried to combat his revulsion.

“Have you ever made one fucking choice in your whole miserable life?” he asked softly. Tiberius smiled at him sadly, and Agron almost regretted the words. There was sympathy in his expression, and the hint of dark shadows that had never seen the light.

“One. To be happy.” Tiberius set the wine on the ground and stood. “I must go.”

“Wait!” Agron stood and grabbed his elbow. Tiberius paused. “Before this, who were you?”

The slave looked at him cautiously.

“What do you mean?”

“Before I was a gladiator, I was Agron, from the lands east of the River Rhine. I raised goats and sheep, and herding dogs, with my mother and my brother. I fought—we all fought—but it was for survival, not sport, and for respect. I knew nothing of gladiators, or—or slaves.”

For him to share so much of his life with one he had just met was uncharacteristic at best, but Agron could not care. He had drunk too much, and he didn’t want to hate Tiberius any longer.

The slave hesitated at the door.

“I was born in Syria,” he said finally. “I only recall a brother… he called me Nasir.”

“Nasir,” Agron repeated. The word was heavy on his tongue, heavier than it had been in Nasir’s rasping voice, but he liked it. It was barbaric. Not German, but not Roman, either. He grinned, and Nasir smiled back, hesitant.

“Sheep?”

“And goats,” Agron affirmed, and they laughed.

***

Duro had never been patient. He forced himself to remain still for a few moments as the list of names was passed around, but after a while, no amount of humiliation was worth the suspense. He stood and tore the sheet from Bion’s hand. He scanned it eagerly for his name, and his heart leapt at the sight.

When he looked again, he noticed that his name was not alone—Hamilcar’s was next to his on the roster, and together they were scheduled to fight two of Solonius’s men.

“Shitfuck,” he muttered under his breath. Auctus came up behind him and plucked the parchment from his hand. He stared at it for a few moments before swearing loudly and passing it off to Crixus.

“What is your complaint?” he asked Duro sourly as he employed stigil and oil to purpose.

“I had thought to fight a single battle on my own for once,” Duro said. “Apparently that is not the fucking case.”

“Dominus sees value in you, and does not wish to be proven wrong; it is no insult. These days, few gladiators see the arena so early, alone or otherwise.”

Duro felt slightly mollified at that, though he was still disappointed. Every time he had ever picked up sword, Agron had been at his side. Sometimes, yes, his aid had been appreciated, but Duro had been eager to attempt battle without a caretaker. At least it was a man who was about his equal—Dominus could have paired him with Crixus, or one of the other veterans, but instead his partner was Hamilcar, the very man he had faced in his Test. It was a less grievous affront than it could have been.

“And you? Do you not gain position?”

“I have no position,” Auctus said shortly. “These are meant to be small games, with only a few gladiators in attendance, and I am not one of the honored number.”

Bitterness lurked in his voice, and Duro frowned. Had Batiatus never seen Auctus fight? The man wielded spear with an ease none could match. Spartacus was the only gladiator in the ludus who could best him consistently; the others fell, or won practice bouts on the basis of a lucky strike, a misplaced step, weariness born of the night before. And the gladiator could not have survived so long in the ludus if the crowd was displeased with his performances.

“Surely the hoards of Capua will riot if you do not take to the sands?” Duro joked. Auctus shrugged moodily.

“The crowd is a fickle beast. Take care to appease it, if you wish to leave the arena alive.”

“How?”

Auctus gave him a wry smile.

“No dirty tricks. Acknowledge them, and win the match. Don’t worry, Duro.” His expression began to soften slightly, but he turned away, and Duro could not read his face. “Any man who has ever set out to hate you has failed.”

-

The next morning, Duro joined the other gladiators as they were herded onto the cart that led to Capua. Auctus was right; only a half-dozen were to brave the arena today. Their armor and weapons had already been transported to the arena under Doctore’s watchful eye. A nighttime chill still hovered in the air, and Duro shivered as they set out.

“You fight as a secutor,” Hamilcar said, caution in his voice. “Have you ever trained as such?”

Duro shrugged.

“Not frequently. Doctore thinks the axe better suits me, and I prefer the round shield.”

The gladiator nodded thoughtfully.

“You should fight Egino, then. He is strong, but slow; Cosmas is too quick to be felled by the axe.”

“Gratitude for the instruction.”

“The bond between gladiators is sacred,” he said simply. “I would not see a brother fall in the arena due to a lack of knowledge—even if he has not yet proved himself worthy of the word.”

“I bested you,” Duro said without thinking. He grinned cockily. “What challenge can Solonius’s men present after that?”

Hamilcar raised his eyebrows and let out a surprised laugh, and the ride to the arena passed quickly. Once they arrived, however, Duro felt discomfort settle in his limbs.

His helmet restricted his vision greatly, with tiny holes for eyes, and he found that the sensation unnerved him. As they walked up to the gate, he hefted his axe nervously, and adjusted the straps of his shield for what felt like the tenth time. He could not lose grip on it. Unlike most of the other boys in his village, Duro had always had a knack for making the most of his shield in battle, and that had saved his life more than once.

“Calm yourself,” Hamilcar ordered. “It is the man who wins or loses in the arena, not his armor.”

“Would you like to fight absent clothes?” Duro shot back before he could help it. “It could not damage our standing with the crowd.”

Hamilcar laughed at that, and shot Duro a grin.

“Let us save such a spectacle for when we advance to the primus; I fear it would not be appreciated by such a crowd as this.”

Duro nodded, and then looked straight ahead as the door opened. He and Hamilcar entered the arena together, and the crowd let loose a dull roar that might have been approval or hatred; it was impossible to tell. Hamilcar thrust his fists into the air triumphantly, greeting the masses, and Duro mimicked him as they walked in a slow circle around the center of the arena.

His gesture was not met with as much enthusiasm as Hamilcar’s, but he willed himself to ignore that. People had a history of underestimating Duro. He usually exceeded their low expectations, unless he allowed himself to worry about them.

He met Hamilcar again as they stood below the pulvinus, and the doors opened to reveal their opponents: Cosmas, a tall hoplomachus, and Egino, thraex. Immediately, Duro shifted his weight to one side, so he could easily engage Egino without being within his partner’s reach. Dominus called “Begin!”, and he charged.

His first strike did not land; he did not expect it to. The head of his axe skittered over Egino’s shield, and Duro whirled in a tight circle to the gladiator’s weak side. His axe bit into the flesh of the gladiator’s thigh, and Duro bared his teeth in a delighted grin. First blood was his.

He jumped back suddenly as Egino attempted to counter the blow, his sword seeking out the parts of Duro’s body exposed by his small shield. If Duro had time to think, he would have been grateful for Auctus’s instruction; under other circumstances it would have been difficult to keep up with Egino’s pace, but after days of competing with Auctus’s agility, it was nothing.

After a few more rapid exchanges, Duro managed to maneuver himself into a favorable position and darted forward for a more severe blow, but he miscalculated. At the last second, Egino batted his axe aside. Duro only had a moment to twist away as the sharp edge of a sword split the skin of his shoulder. He hissed a curse, and his opponent’s heavy shield knocked the wind from him.

 _Fuck_ , he thought as he hit the ground. The same damn mistake, over and over again. He lurched to the side and rolled away, yanking his shield up in his defense; he had been forced to throw away his axe as he fell, for fear of being impaled on it. Four times the gladiator attempted to strike him, before the weight of his armor became too much and he was forced to rest.

His heart pounding in his throat, Duro leapt up and slowly moved in a wide circle around his opponent.

“Duro!”

He had to turn his head to look, and instinctively reached out a hand. Hamilcar’s opponent had hit the ground, the life fled from his body, and Hamilcar had wrested the spear from his grip. Duro caught it with a sense of relief. He was not as skilled in the spear as Auctus, but all the men of his tribe learned to hunt with it; it was better than being armed only with a shield.

He tightened his grip and wheeled to face the gladiator again. The man looked nervous. His gaze flickered between Hamilcar and Duro, unsure which would strike first. Hamilcar raised his shield with a sudden fierce yell, and it seemed as though the gladiator was decided. He extended his arm outward, providing scant protection from Duro, as he lurched forward with his sword.

At the last second, Hamilcar dived out of the way, and Duro leapt closer. His spear slipped through the gladiator’s chest like water, and the man fell to his knees. Hamilcar stepped forward and swung his sword, hacking into the man’s neck until the blood choked his lips.

Duro tore off his helmet and stared, not comprehending the sight. He looked up to see Hamilcar laughing, a broad grin stretched across his face. Duro answered it, his heart leaping as he realized that they had  _won_. After weeks of training, of being knocked to the sand over and over and waking with more bruises than skin—he was a  _gladiator_.

He remembered Auctus’s words and turned in a small circle to address the crowd, raising the bloody spear victoriously. Hamilcar pointed his sword at the pulvinus respectfully, and when Duro looked, his heartbeat stuttered. Dominus was sitting there, laughing, with an enormous grin on his face. If Batiatus were that pleased by his performance, there was a chance he would seek out Agron, was there not?

Duro raised his spear in silent salute, and Dominus graced him with a small, approving nod.

He almost jumped as Hamilcar slapped him heartily on the shoulder and turned him towards the gates.

“Congratulations, brother.”

***

If Agron had thought life at the ludus would improve after his time in the arena, he was wrong. After each victory, he was shipped off to Levitius’s villa, plied with wine, and given leave to fuck his dominus. Once or twice, a blonde bed-slave joined them, but Levitius did not care for Agron’s attention to be divided, and so she was sent away again. Soon, the Roman gave up the pretense of being too drunk to perform, and stopped hosting parties beforehand, too.

The only reprieve was in his conversations with Nasir. At first, the slave was still reserved, more willing to listen to Agron speak than to open his own mouth. Agron had worn him down with wine and charm, and the occasional statement so outrageous that Nasir had to contradict it. He started by telling Agron about Rome, about politics and laws and customs that Agron had no knowledge of and the barest passing interest in.

It had been a beginning. Over time, the slave had begun to impart more details about this life in the villa. He had not been lying when he said he made the choice to be happy; Nasir took more pride in his position than Agron would have thought possible, and he had friends in the villa that made life easier.

Agron wished he could say the same for himself.

He had proven himself in the arena several times over. Soon, in fact, he had become a popular favorite, performing later and later in the day, though the primus was still denied to him. This had caused only bitterness among his fellow gladiators. They rarely spoke to him directly, but Agron was not oblivious.

Uxoris was the one who needled him the loudest. His taunts and insults were rarer than the others, but they carried the sting of conviction.

“In Capua and Pompeii, gladiators have a sense of honor,” he said one night during the evening meal—ostensibly to Aulus alone, but loud enough for his words to carry. Agron bent over his bowl and scowled.

“These small arenas can never be Rome,” Aulus agreed sagely, as though the stupid fuck had ever set foot outside of Picintia. Aulus was one of the most rarely-used gladiators in the ludus. He had no sense of sport; his matches were quick and ruthless, and Agron doubted he knew the meaning of the word “honor.”

“You speak a sad truth. When a gladiator is paid not in blood, but in wine and whores—”

“A gladiator is paid in coin,” Agron snapped, unable to stand it any longer. He turned around and glared at the veteran. Uxoris’s eyes narrowed.

“Spoken by one who will never understand the meaning of his words,” he said in a cold, quiet voice. “If you knew how many men have stood in your place, and died there, you would say differently.”

“Do you think I am so ignorant?” Agron demanded, rising. “I have trained the same, heard the same fucking legends, fought in the same arena, earned the same victory—and you strip me of the title gladiator. To what purpose?”

Uxoris stood and met Agron’s eyes; his own were cold and dark, and suddenly Agron felt sick. Other gladiators crowded around them eagerly, expecting another fight, but he knew they would be disappointed. There was no anger in Uxoris’s gaze. Only contempt.

“A gladiator fights in the name of the gods, his house, and his brothers. What do you fight for?”

 _Duro_ , Agron thought, but said nothing.

“For the favors of your patron,” Uxoris answered himself. “Every drop of blood you spill in the arena goes to a night in a rich villa, with the comforts it affords you, while your brothers tend their wounds and mourn their dead. Do not call yourself a gladiator, boy—you know not the meaning of the word.”

Agron did not know how to respond. Shame colored his cheeks, but he could think of no words to defend himself. His jaw worked for a moment, struggling, but he simply turned and walked away. He pushed through the crowd of gladiators, and retreated down into the dark stone heart of the ludus.


	6. Chapter 6

The cart shook and rattled its way back to the villa, but Duro wouldn’t have been bothered if the earth itself had bucked underneath them. He had survived the arena, with only a paltry graze on the shoulder to show for it! He smiled to himself the whole way back, and leapt down from the cart the second they passed through the ludus gates.

The gladiators who had remained shuffled over slowly, offering congratulations and asking for news in sullen voices. Most hated to be left behind, but Duro was on the receiving end of several approving nods from those who had not considered him a true brother before this moment.

Duro looked around and spotted Auctus, leaning casually against one of the pillars. Hastily, Duro approached him and called out a greeting.

“You survived, at least,” Auctus commented, though he was grinning. Duro laughed.

“Is that all you have to say?”

"You are injured,” Auctus said suddenly, with a note of alarm in his voice.

His eyes were fixed on Duro’s shoulder, and Duro couldn’t help but feel a flash of irritation. It had been the same way with Agron; after every battle, training session, and wrestling match, his brother had brought up mistakes before thinking of praise. And yes, perhaps it had kept him alive a bit longer, but it was annoying all the same.

“Small price to pay for victory,” he said with a shrug.

Auctus flung an arm around the uninjured shoulder with a word of congratulations. They began to walk back to the ludus. It had been a long, hot summer day; the sun was just beginning to approach the horizon, the air flushing blue with cold. Duro drew closer to Auctus and was unable to keep from smiling broadly.

They reached Auctus’s room, and he sat on the bed as Auctus went through his things.

“A proper celebration would require wine and whores, probably,” he said with a note of dry humor. “But all I have is this.”

He held out a small bag, which Duro accepted. It was full of dried fruit; he tasted one cautiously and was almost overcome by the sweetness. He thought of the endless porridge and olive oil that made up a gladiator’s diet, and took several more. Auctus selected two, carefully, and returned the pouch to its proper place.

“I dislike asking Ashur for things,” he explained as he fingered the sticky fruit. “But some indulgences must be allowed.”

“Do you save the rest of your coin for freedom, then?” Duro asked, grimacing as he bit into a stone. Auctus sat beside him.

“You have fought in the arena now. Do  _you_  wish for freedom?”

Duro thought of the crowd roaring his victory.

“No,” he admitted.

“There is nothing I can gain from freedom that I do not have, and a good deal more to lose.”

“Nothing to gain?” Duro asked, surprised. “I don’t believe that. There would be cheaper whores, at least.”

Auctus snorted.

“I’ve never paid a whore,” he admitted casually.

Duro’s eyebrows rose again.

“Never?”

“Never. I came to the ludus when I was young, and Batiatus’s slaves tend to have a certain aspect that never appealed to me.”

“What aspect?” Duro pressed, his curiosity peaked.

There was something wrong with him for asking, probably. Would he be disappointed in himself, if Auctus revealed that he favored large breasts and light hair? Or would they bond over favoring the same kind of woman—fair and dark, with laughing eyes?

He was fucked. But he still wanted to know.

“Cunts, for one,” Auctus said wryly. He glanced down at the fruit in his hand. “And melancholy. It is possible for slaves to laugh, you know. Laugh, smile, raise their eyes from the floor. I’ve seen it myself. The girls here have been forced to forget that, and it turns the stomach.”

Duro’s heart was racing. That was an admission, wasn’t it? He couldn’t help the smile that came over his face, but he bit back the next question on his tongue. Time enough for that later. Duro was known for being eager, but he had  _some_  self-restraint. He didn’t want to appear the fool.

“Truly?  _You_  value laughter above all things?”

Auctus laughed.

“There is a time for intensity and a time for gaiety.” He popped the last of the date in his mouth. “When one has just braved the arena for the first time, for example. Come, tell me of your victory.”

Duro began to describe the battle; hesitant, at first, then with greater detail as Auctus listened with unwavering interest. Unconsciously, he began to embellish the tale; more blows were exchanged, the crowd grew more excited, his opponent more skilled. Had he been listening to himself, he probably would have suspected exaggeration, but Auctus didn’t say anything.

Then came the moment when he had received the wound on his shoulder. Anxiety took over Auctus’s face, even though he could see with his own eyes that it had been treated. He fidgeted, and interrupted for the first time.

“Are you sure you do not need to see medicus?”

“There was one at the arena, as you well know. I’m fine.”

“I put too much effort into your survival to see you perish because of a fucking flesh wound,” Auctus said with a grumble, though Duro could hear the worry beneath the flippancy. The gladiator reached over and lightly traced the edges of the bandages. A small, barely-discernible drop of blood had begun to stain the center. “Take care, and see yourself to a quick recovery.”

“What is this?” Duro asked with a small quirk of the lips. “Do you admit, after all, that you wish to see me live?”

He expected Auctus to pull back, to roll his eyes, to berate him for his foolishness. He did none of those things.

“I have always cared,” Auctus said simply. “I never admitted it, because it seems as though you and the gods were determined to show me wrong. But now… yes, I am pleased.”

Duro stared. Auctus’s gaze was lowered, his eyes obscured by the thick shadow of his lashes. Duro’s skin felt hypersensitive where he touched it. Every groove of his finger, every thin thread of the cotton bandage scraped against his nerves. His heart was pounding.

Auctus’s lips twitched as though he were about to say something. Duro stole the opportunity. He steeled himself, swooped down, and kissed him.

Their noses bumped uncomfortably, and he should have retreated and tried again, but he refused to move until he knew Auctus’s response. Breath fluttered against his lips. Duro squeezed his eyes shut, and finally fingertips, sticky from the dates, touched his cheek. Gently, then insistently, Auctus guided him to tilt his head, and pulled him in closer.

Duro shifted closer and ran his hands down Auctus’s arms, brushing against his shoulder and then moving to twist his fingers in the short hair at the back of his neck. Auctus’s breath caught, and Duro grinned to himself. Expelling air in a huff of laughter, Auctus drew back slightly and touched their foreheads together. Duro’s eyes fell closed.

“You are so fucking pleased with yourself,” Auctus mused.

“Are you not pleased with me?” Duro asked teasingly. “I’m cheaper than a whore, you know.”

He leaned forward again and very carefully traced the outline of Auctus’s lower lip with his tongue. It was more difficult than he had expected; Auctus was trembling.

“I don’t think you are,” he countered, and he pulled Duro close again.

-

The next morning, more than one man snickered as they approached. Duro cheerfully ignored every glance. Auctus forbore, though every once in a while his cheeks were tinged faintly with red. It was Hamilcar who first found the courage to speak.

“You know you moan like a whore?” he said playfully when they broke for water.

“You know you moan like a man alone in his cell, with only his fist for company?” Duro quipped.

He glanced out at the training grounds as Hamilcar laughed. Auctus had paused to pick Varro up off the sand, and the sunlight glinted off his skin. He was smiling. Duro smiled to himself. He drained the water in one sip, and returned to the sands again.

***

Nothing changed upon his next visit to the arena, except this time Nasir disappeared before the girl with the tray arrived, with no explanation, and did not return. Agron sat in his room, alone, and let his rage rise.

Suddenly, he could not stand it anymore. He leapt up, seized the jug of wine, and hurled it at the wall. It shattered with a loud crash, and before the pieces could clatter to the ground he was sending the bowl of stew in the same direction. Objectively, it helped nothing, nor did it soothe his rage, but he couldn’t help the fierce pleasure that surged through him at the sound. After  _months_  in the ludus, he was no closer to finding Duro, no closer to having the aid of anyone—gladiator, slave, or Roman—no closer to home.

He felt helpless.

Agron thought about kicking the bed, tearing it to pieces with his bare hands until there was nothing left but splinters, but he decided it was not worth the effort. Nothing was, these days. Instead, he fell wearily onto the mattress, closing his eyes.

“What the fuck was that?” a voice at the door snapped. Agron sat up and saw Nasir, who was eyeing the mess with sheer irritation in his face, and suddenly felt embarrassed by his outburst.

“Apologies.”

Nasir met his gaze, and instantly his face softened.

“It is nothing,” he shrugged, but Agron knew that was false. It was broken pottery that must be replaced, slaves who would be punished for the loss, and effort that must be put into washing the walls and floor.

“I would not have you face the consequences of foolish actions.”

Nasir waved him away and stepped into the room. Bare feet crept carefully around shattered pottery and the soggy mess of spilled food, and Nasir sat.

“What prompted them?” he asked shortly.

He gestured for Agron’s arm, and Agron held it out. He had not had a chance to remove his armbands; Nasir produced a thin strip of red leather and began to replace the old, frayed chords that bound them together. Agron had been moping about the slave’s absence, when Nasir had gone to bring him a gift. He felt like shit, and that provoked an honest answer.

“Touch.”

“Touch?” Nasir echoed, confused. He glanced up, and then back down. His voice was careful when he spoke. “Certainly the possessive touch of a dominus can be… unwelcome, but…”

“It is not that,” Agron interrupted, though it partially was. “It is the absence of touch. In my tribe, there is always friends, family, lovers, all reaching out to be touched and embraced. Here, there is—what? Fighting? A mere mockery of fucking, too base to cause any worry?”

“Yet there is worry in your face,” Nasir pointed out softly. Agron looked at him, and was amused to note the shadow of a blush that rested high on his cheek.

“And yours. Am I embarrassing you?”

“No,” Nasir said, his voice sharp even though the blush persisted. Agron couldn’t help but laugh.

“Your cheeks say otherwise, little man. You are not a virgin?”

Nasir lifted his chin, affecting the demeanor of a pompous body slave. The glimpse of a grin betrayed it as a jest, though, and Agron smiled. Nasir released his arm, finished with the task, and he rested against the wall.

“No, I am not,” Nasir laughed. “And even if I were, it would take more than a gladiator’s foul mouth to bring me to blush.”

Wordlessly, Agron lifted his hand and touched Nasir’s face, just below his cheekbone, where the red had been the darkest. Nasir slapped his hand away, and then, when Agron responded with a playful exclamation of shock, reached around with the other hand to hit him in the back of the head. Agron laughed out loud.

“Do you want to fight me, little man?” he goaded, snatching one of Nasir’s wrists from the air.

“Call me that again, and I will,” Nasir asserted.

“And it would be the most glorious fight I’ve had in months,” Agron said with a heavy sigh, releasing the slave. He had no energy for mock-wrestling at the moment—in truth, he probably never would with Nasir. Scrappy or no, the slave was  _small,_ and Agron did not want to crush him. The thought raised half a smile on his face, and Nasir looked heartened.

Suddenly, in a jerky motion, Nasir moved to rest his back against Agron’s shoulder. It was not necessarily a romantic gesture; Duro had done it a thousand times, when tired, as had other boys and men after a long day of work or training. This was different. The warm weight of Nasir’s body raised gooseflesh on his arms.

“Elsewhere, I have heard the bond between gladiators spoken of as brotherhood,” Nasir said thoughtfully. “Is it not so at your ludus?”

Agron shook his head.

“There is no oath, if that is what you mean. Uxoris has complained about that more than once.”

“Still—even if there is no oath, do you not have—” he looked almost embarrassed to say it “—a friend? That is as common among slaves as free men, you know.”

“I have you,” Agron countered, and determinedly ignored the way a red blush lit up his face. “As for the ludus—I earned the wrath of Uxoris, and that is enough to ostracize any man.”

“How did you manage to do that?” Nasir asked, and Agron was shocked to see that it was only compassion that motivated his question. Duro would be mocking him for his sulks, at this point. In truth, Agron probably deserved to be mocked, but he liked compassion just as well.

He decided not to mention that Uxoris had first taken dislike to him because Agron taunted him into a brawl. That was the kind of detail that would draw mockery from a priest.

“He thinks I am not worthy to be called a gladiator,” he said instead. Nasir turned to look at him, frowning.

“You have brought more glory and praise to your house than any gladiator in years. Is it jealousy that prompts such words?”

“Contempt. A true gladiator is rewarded only by victory—not wine and rest and the company of a rich Roman patron,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“I see.” For a moment, Nasir seemed deep in thought. Agron waited for his counsel, but none came. Instead, Nasir merely looked down and asked if Agron liked the new chords for his arm band. He did, and the conversation turned to other subjects.

-

A few days later, when the lists went up for the next trip to the arena, Agron walked into the baths to find more excitement than usual. Uxoris was stalking out at the same time, and made sure to deliberately jostle Agron’s shoulder as he walked. Agron glared at his back and approached the tablet.

_In celebration of the twins Castor and Pollux, all gladiators in the coming celebration will fight in pairs._

_Primus—Uxoris and Lupinius, against Marius and Spurius_

For a moment he stared at it, uncomprehending. Then a wide grin spread across his face. Nasir was making him a friend.

***

“If you seek your brother, you must speak with Dominus,” Crixus said, casually swinging his sword in the way that seemed most likely to cleave Duro’s head from his shoulders. Duro blocked the blow, although he staggered back and was immediately pressed again.

“And how would I do that?” he asked after a moment. His breath came heavily, but he continued to hold ground against Crixus, which pleased him.

“You would become champion,” Auctus interjected, amused, from where he sparred with Varro nearby. “Or, failing that, befriend Doctore, because only a fool would antagonize Doctore.”

Both Crixus and Auctus laughed at him then, and Duro stepped forward with grim determination, striking for Crixus’s stomach. It was true Duro had no love for Doctore. He was not stupid enough to be insubordinate to the man’s face, but there was coolness in their interaction that was unmistakable. Auctus and Crixus, both close with Doctore, could not understand it, and expressed amusement at best and strong objections at worst. Duro had not told them his primary complaint about the man, nor would he.

Doctore had been the one who deemed Agron unsalvageable because of his wound. He had been the one to tell Batiatus not to waste his money on a slave who would die without ever taking sword in hand. When Duro had begged and pleaded to stay with his brother, it was he that Batiatus had looked to and he who had shaken his head. Doctore had truly been the one to separate them.

Duro had a forgiving temperament, but some things could not be forgiven.

Crixus battered Duro back effortlessly for a few moments, and finally disarmed him. He refrained from beating Duro into a bloody pulp, which was appreciated, and merely knocked him to the sands. Duro gave  _missio_ , and the Gaul helped him back up with a few congenial insults.

“Crixus!” Doctore barked. “Enough. Your strength returns; pair with Varro. Duro, work the pallas.”

“Yes, Doctore,” Duro mumbled as he jogged over to the wooden stakes. Auctus fetched a cup of water and leisurely joined him.

“It would be in your best interest to earn Oenomaus’s favor,” he said.

“I have not the time, and  _you_  already have his ear,” Duro said with significance as he struck the pallas.

For a long moment, there was a pause as Auctus considered it. Duro paused in his routine and turned. Auctus sighed.

“Fuck. I will ask.” He touched Duro’s shoulder and touched their heads together for a quick second; he had noticed, with a speed that was almost alarming, how much Duro appreciated that touch. “You smell of sweat and blood—you know I cannot resist that.”

Duro laughed and gripped his arm for a half-second before turning back to the pallas. He made a great show of working hard as Auctus approached Doctore and offered a brief greeting, which was returned. The wind was in his favor, and Duro heard every word clearly.

“Duro wishes to see Dominus,” Auctus said after a moment.

Duro felt eyes on his back, but determinedly kept his rhythm.

“One victory does not make a man champion,” Doctore said with an edge of contempt in his voice. “Dominus has other concerns; he would not thank me for intruding with a minor issue.”

“No, but he would thank you for advice leading to purchase of a valued gladiator. Dominus went to great lengths to procure Spartacus’s wife, a slave of no certain skill, even before Spartacus defeated Theokoles. Duro asks the same consideration for his brother, a strong and capable warrior.”

“Duro yet believes his brother is in fighting condition?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause. Duro glanced over his shoulder and found Doctore watching him. Auctus, undaunted, kept his gaze fixed on Doctore. Duro returned to the pallas.

“I believe otherwise.”

“Oenomaus…”

“And why do you approach me on this matter? Why does Duro not speak for himself?”

“Because you would not listen, and every day that passes separates them further. My intervention speeds things along. I would not ask if I did not think it worthy of attention, you know that.”

“Do I?” Doctore asked with a note of amusement in his voice. Auctus laughed.

“I have other qualities to recommend me, my friend.”

Duro grinned. There was a pause.

“Fine—I will see if Dominus is available. If he is not, though, do not expect me to press the issue.”

“Understood.”

Auctus strolled casually back to the pallas, hoisting his spear. Before he could do more than rattle it against the target, Duro seized hold of his necklace and pulled him in for a quick kiss. In general, they were not a couple eager for public displays, but both were smiling when they parted.

“Other qualities,” Duro murmured mockingly.

“Of course.”

“Besides giving in to my every whim, what qualities should I desire in a man?”

Auctus laughed and stepped back, arms spread wide.

“Take sword in hand, Duro, and we shall see how easily I give in.”

Duro grinned to himself and obeyed.

-

The next day, Duro was summoned to the villa to see Dominus. Auctus, Crixus, and Hamilcar all wished him luck, and Spartacus took the time to affirm Batiatus’s generosity in such matters, which gladdened Duro’s heart. At some point, it had become common knowledge what Duro sought. He did not know precisely how, but he was grateful that it earned him support rather than scorn. He exited the ludus with high hopes.

Dominus’s body slave showed him into the study, where Batiatus was pouring over some parchment. He looked up at the intrusion with a congenial smile.

“Duro. Doctore says you wish to speak with me,” he said, standing and folding his arms. Duro ducked his head.

“Yes, Dominus. Apologies for the intrusion.”

“It is of no consequence,” Batiatus said, waving him away. “I was pleased by your showing in the arena. If there is a favor you would ask of me, I would be glad to offer my assistance—within reason, of course,” he amended, with such an amiable expression that Duro pressed forward eagerly.

“The men talk about what you did for Spartacus; you found his wife, though the gods themselves were against it.”

“You seek the same service?” Batiatus said, his voice suddenly torn between irritation and amusement. “Forget lanista—my real talent clearly lies in the recovery of slave-women.”

“Not a woman, Doctore,” Duro interrupted quickly, before the irritation could spread. “My brother, a man of strength and fighting skill. I only ask for the resources to add another gladiator to your ranks. He was in the possession of the slaver Trebius, and accompanied him from Capua.”

The smile faded from Batiatus’s face, and he leaned against the table.

“I recall the man of which you speak,” he said slowly. “He was at the same auction where you were purchased, was he not?”

“Yes. His name is Agron—he stood by my side.”

“He ‘stood’ by virtue of the gods,” the Roman said dubiously, and dread grew heavy in Duro’s mind. “The reason I did not purchase him at first opportunity was because of a wound that threatened to fell him at any moment.”

“Agron has survived worse injuries, Dominus,” Duro pressed. “He is a better fighter than I am, and stronger. I am sure that, given the chance, he would bring glory to the House of Batiatus. Only let me find him—”

“You would find a grave,” Batiatus said, and suddenly his voice was hard. “If that. Slaves are rarely granted such honors. I know it is painful to hear, but it is the truth. I am a lanista; I have seen many such wounds suffered in the arena. Even when treated by the finest medicus gold can buy, they fester, bringing unconquerable sickness and death. Agron was not long for this world when you arrived. Now…”

“Please, Dominus,” Duro said quietly. He knew that he was begging, and hated himself for it, but it must be done. “Please, I must know—”

“It is none of my concern,” Batiatus said. He turned and waved Duro away. The body slave stepped forward. “I cannot set my resources in hopeless attempt.”

Wordlessly, Duro allowed himself to be dragged away. He thought of Agron, staring after him from the auction block, and felt weaker than ever before.

-

Agron and Uxoris spoke little to each other on the way to the arena. Agron spent the entire journey strategizing in his own mind. Given the chance, surely Nasir would have paired them with men who could be bested, but he doubted that the slave had  _that_  much influence. A primus could only be fixed so much, especially when the entire must be fixed by subtle hints, carefully-chosen words murmured into a master’s ear at the precise right moment.

The wait until the primus was a long one. Just before it began, he spotted a familiar figure in the doorway. Eagerly, he stood, and Nasir joined him. His walk was hesitant, and Agron guessed that he did not have explicit permission to be there—Levitius had never sent Nasir to him before a match.

“I came to wish you good fortune,” Nasir said, smiling tentatively. Agron couldn’t help the pleased grin that overtook his face.

“Gratitude.” He reached out and tweaked Nasir’s chin fondly. “Though I cannot help but hope that your Fortuna does not interfere. She has not always been kind to me.”

“She tends to be more agreeable with those who do not try her patience,” Nasir agreed, nodding solemnly. “Perhaps she will aid my wishes, rather than yours.”

“You try  _my_  patience, little man,” Agron said laughingly. “Pray for me if you must--but from the stands, where the gods may yet avoid sight of me. And… gratitude.”

Nasir nodded with another small smile. He hesitated for a moment, and then turned to depart.

Agron returned to the bench where Uxoris waited; the other gladiator grunted his disapproval, but did not ask what had drawn Agron’s attention, and Agron did not offer an explanation. His thoughts were turned towards Nasir. The slave had never come to wish him luck before. Was it merely to test the execution of his plan? A perfectionist’s desire to see things through to the end? Or...

His thoughts turned back to the other night, when Nasir had leaned against him. There had been hesitance in his body, in the way he held most of his weight off of Agron, fearful of being a burden. But when Agron had reached over, wrapping his arm around the slave’s shoulders, a delighted smile had crept over his lips, unbidden. Affection could have prompted those actions. Flirtation.

Agron, too, smiled at the thought. He liked flirting with Nasir. He liked walking into that accursed house and knowing that there was one person, at least, whom he did not despise. Whom he liked. The ludus and the arena stunk of worn leather, blood, sweat, and misery, the Romans’ rooms of perfumes and clean linen masking the piss that lurked beneath the surface. Nasir made him think of sunlight.

He recalled what Nasir had said to him when they first met—that he had made a choice to be happy as a slave. Agron, so far, had not made that choice. He had been alone and angry and miserable, and it was only Nasir’s assistance that had even set him on the right path. With Nasir, again, he could...

_Duro, Mama, and the Rhine._

No. He stood abruptly as Doctore called his name, and walked with stiff strides to the arena entrance. No, Agron could not be happy here, because he had given his word that he would protect Duro, and he would keep that promise. He could not be content here; he must go. Nasir deserved to know that.

“I have been a gladiator for as long as you’ve been alive, boy,” Uxoris growled as their names were announced. “If you get me killed, my shade will haunt you to the afterlife.”

Agron did not respond. He placed his awkward, heavy helmet on his head, and drew his sword.

***

Agron was ready to die.

He glanced at Uxoris and saw that the other gladiator was, if possible, even more uncomfortable. They had been rushed back to Levitius’s villa after their victory in the arena and shown to a medicus. That was good; Agron had sustained a painful cut to his forearm, and Uxoris had broken two fingers. At the ludus, they would have gotten poorer care at a steeper price.

Then had come the oils, the perfumes, the purple-cloth subligariae and the flecks of gold. Levitius was throwing another party, larger and more sumptuous than the first. The gladiators were a constant presence this time, from the moment the guests arrived to the moment they staggered drunkenly from the house.

Through the whole thing, he was subjected to the touches and vulgar suggestions of the Romans. If their interest progressed too far, Levitius swept in and redirected them, but within a few minutes another rich man would descend to examine him, remarking on the crude shape of a Germanic skull, or a gladiator’s supposed inability to feel pain. This last was always accompanied by fingers pressing harshly against the newly-sewn wound, and Agron breathed curses in the back of his throat to avoid lashing out.

Uxoris, despite being older and more familiar, was not free of attention, though his stone face betrayed no reaction. Agron respected him for that, as well as for their time in the arena. Past disputes had not resulted in betrayal during the battle. More than once, Uxoris had diverted his attention from his own opponent to assist Agron, and Agron had gladly returned the favor. Together, they had earned a solid victory, and Uxoris had offered a grave nod of approval when they left the sands.

Eventually, the guests were seen to the door. The only ones left in the room were the two gladiators, Levitius, and a handful of slaves who slunk in unobtrusively to clean away dishes. And Nasir, of course, who had been quietly in the background all night. Now he stepped forward, at Levitius’s side as always, as Levitius approached Agron. The Roman staggered slightly, and Agron realized that he was drunk—so drunk that it was a miracle he remained walking.

“Jupiter’s cock, that went well,” Levitius slurred as he collapsed against Agron’s shoulder. Agron wanted to let him drop, but his arms came up automatically to support the man’s weight. “Very pleased…”

He started kissing Agron’s shoulder sloppily, and Agron couldn’t help it. He pushed the man away, insistently, until Levitius gave up. His head started drooping down, and his entire body became dead weight. Agron looked to Uxoris.

“Help me.”

The other gladiator nodded and ducked under one of Levitius’s arms as Agron took the other. Between the two of them they managed to drag the Roman towards the exit. Nasir darted in front of them to lead them to the bedroom. It was then that Agron noticed his hair. Two thin locks of hair were braided and pulled back to form a crown at his forehead. It was pretty, and very… unlike him. He couldn’t help but snicker.

“This fool is drunker than Doctore,” Uxoris muttered. “Is it always like this?”

“Better and worse,” Agron grunted. “Fewer people, usually. Less wine.”

“I’d prefer the ludus.”

It was a silent apology, and Agron made a noise of consent, but his eyes fell again to Nasir, and he did not speak.

They deposited Levitius in his bed, and Nasir directed one of the other slaves to watch over him while he escorted the gladiators to their rooms. They would be given food from the feast, he told them, and small measures of wine, which seemed to please Uxoris. Agron wished his companion good night, and went to his usual room with Nasir at his side. Nasir sighed wearily.

“It was a good feast,” Agron said.

“Yes. Though Dominus will not remember most of it, and I predict his temper will be short.”

“Few men are made better by the aftermath of wine,” Agron agreed as they entered the room. He caught sight of Nasir’s hair again—the braids swinging with his walk—and let out a short laugh. Nasir looked around.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asked, incensed. Agron tried to tame his grin, but it was a difficult task, and Nasir was not convinced.

“It is nothing. Only… the girls in my village do their hair like that for festivals. It is very becoming,” he said in a charming voice.

Nasir groaned and threw himself on the bed, one hand flying to attack the knot on the back of his head.

“Chadara did this; it was not my decision,” he complained.

He tried to undo the knot, but the angle was bad. Agron could see that his efforts were only making it worse, pulling some strands loose but tightening more of them. He sat beside Nasir and reached up to still his hands.

“Let me.”

Slowly, Nasir lowered his hands, and Agron set at undoing the knot. He tugged—too roughly at first, and Nasir hissed—at the thin loop of leather that held the ends of the two braids together. The plaits swung free, and he was teased by the faint scent of roses. He paused to breathe in the aroma, but then Nasir turned his head slightly, and he returned to task.

His fingers felt rough and clumsy compared to Nasir’s silky locks, softened as they were by the rose oil, but the slave did not complain after his initial discomfort. Within a few moments, the braids were undone, and Nasir turned around.

“Gratitude,” he said.

There was no smile on his face, only a question. His hand rested on the bed between them. Hesitantly, Agron reached out and covered it with his own.

Surprised delight spread over Nasir’s face, and Agron felt a jolt of panic. This was more than flirtation. What he felt for Nasir was deeper, fueled not by his beauty but by his kindness, his cleverness, his boldness. Before, he had thought that inconsequential, because Nasir had given no indication that he felt the same. Now, his eyes gave him away, and Agron had to warn him.

This was more than flirtation, but it could not remain so. If it did… it would end in pain for both of them.

“I do not know how long I will be in Rome,” he blurted out. Nasir leaned back slightly with a confused air.

“Oh. Where do you intend to go, gladiator?” he asked with half a smile.

“I have no plans as of yet,” Agron said, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean that I am not a gladiator who fights only for personal glory.”

Recognition dawned in Nasir’s eyes and then, immediately, the mask of a reserved slave fell back into place. It settled easy over his face—dulling his eyes, erasing some lines and drawing others. Some force pulled his lips into a faint smile, but it was not happiness.

“Who holds your heart?” Nasir asked.

His voice was pitched carefully in order to suggest sympathy and curiosity, but it was so different from his usual attitude that Agron was struck dumb with confusion.

When he considered the slave’s words again, he realized that it was  _jealousy_  Nasir was attempting to hide. He thought that Agron was speaking of a lover. He barked a laugh, and irritation flashed over Nasir’s face like lightning.

“No one, little man—no one but those who hold my blood, as well. I speak of my brother. He was sold to a lanista in Capua, and I intend to be reunited with him. It is possible that such a feat may be accomplished in Picintia, but I thought to warn you, if it sent me to Capua or further.”

 _Duro, Mama, and the_   _Rhine_ , his mind recited softly, but Agron brushed it aside. It was Duro who needed him. Mama could read; she could be satisfied with a letter. And the spirit of the Rhine and its tribes depended more on principle than physical presence. To reunite with Duro, and remain in Picintia, would be sufficient, and even preferred.

The reason sat in front of him, unabashed delight shining from his eyes.

“Then let us hope Fortuna still has her gaze on you,” Nasir said.

“I told you, I have no desire for her gaze.”

“Her favor, then.”

“And why should a Roman goddess favor me?”

Nasir shrugged.

“She has favored me, in the past, and I am no more Roman than you.”

“You are not a barbarian,” Agron said, laughing. He could not picture Nasir in the getup Rome expected of barbarians; gaudy adornments, rough clothes, crude weapons crusted with blood. The slave had a kind of elegant simplicity about him that could not be corrupted by others.

Nasir laughed.

“And if I do my hair again like a German girl, do you think she would turn from me? Or would I need to—”

Agron kissed him.

If asked, he could not say what inspired his action in that moment. The warmth in his voice, perhaps, or the kind acceptance with which he received Agron’s words, despite the disappointment they might have brought. Maybe it was nothing but the slow build of intimacy of the past few months, reaching a point where he could no longer deny its power.

The reason did not seem to matter, when his lips were touching Nasir’s. It was a soft kiss, desire muted by reticence, but still sweet. He drew back slowly to gauge Nasir’s reaction, and was met by the brightest smile he had ever seen. He smiled back.

“Apologies. I did not mean to interrupt.”

“It was nothing of importance,” Nasir said, waving him off.

“I always wish—”

Before he could finish, Nasir’s hands were on his shoulders, pulling him in for another kiss, deeper than the last. He pulled away too soon, and grinned.

“The scales are balanced.”

At that moment, there was a tentative knock on the door. Nasir stood to answer it, and returned with a plate of food and a small amphora of wine. The meal may have been merely scraps from the great banquet, but still it looked more appetizing that the stew or porridge Agron had been subjected to the past few months. His stomach grumbled.

Nasir smiled and set the tray on the bed between them.

“Eat—it’s good, and you are weary,” he said, helping himself to a honeyed cake. Agron hesitated, suddenly overcome by the thought of how Nasir would taste with honey on his lips, but obeyed. “You have not talked much about your brother.”

“Neither have you.”

Nasir shrugged. He took a small sip of wine, then passed the amphora to Agron. Their fingers brushed together as the jar was exchanged, and Agron thought of the first night when he had been taken to this villa, an angry slave who felt nothing but disgust for those around him.

He drank from the amphora, and then reached for Nasir’s hand, keeping a firm hold on him as he ate.

“His name is Duro.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this opening scene, from Duro's point of view, was the first full chapter written. What can I say, I love his pain.

The day was hot and dry. With every step, the dust lifted to settle on Duro’s legs, clinging to his sweaty skin, and his heart felt aflame. Still, he did not stop. He could not stop. If he paused to take breath, then he could think again, and that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to feel the burn of his muscles with each strike of wooden sword against the pallas. He wanted the wood to chip away and reveal blood and intestines below, so he could see the result of his anger. He wanted Batiatus’s fucking head on a stake, but what he did not want was to  _think_.

There was no sound but his panting breath and occasionally the soft grunt that accompanied the strain of tired muscles. Even the noise of the other gladiators was surprisingly hushed, and Duro suspected that they pitied him. Some of them, at least. The sun was falling ever-swiftly to the horizon, and he knew of at least three gladiators who would have made joke by now, teasing him for his uncharacteristic devotion to training. Those same men were likely staring into their porridge, sneaking glances at him from time to time and muttering about poor, naïve, hopeful, foolish Duro.

With a snarl of frustration, Duro threw away his sword. He braced himself on his knees and took a half-second to breathe. Rage was good. Rage was power. Sometimes, though… sometimes rage was also fucking exhausting. Blinking back tears, Duro stood and moved to retrieve his sword.

“Don’t.” Auctus’s hand touched his elbow, and Duro wavered. Tenderly, Auctus drew him closer and dropped a kiss to his bare shoulder. “Come and eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Help me feed the birds.”

“Auctus.”  Duro ground his teeth.

“If you think I am going to let you stay out here and stew, you are wrong,” Auctus said in a steely voice. “Come with me willingly, or I will hit you over the head with the butt of that fucking sword and drag you in, and we will see who feels better about it in the morning.”

Duro hesitated. His muscles ached, and his head pounded, and he couldn’t help but feel that movement, continuous action, would help him survive. But Auctus’s jaw was set, and there was compassion in his eyes. It would be far easier to give in, and he wanted to avoid antagonizing one of the few people he had left.

He nodded, and allowed himself to be led into the ludus, and into Auctus’s room, guided by the warm hand at his back.

Auctus fed his birds in silence for a moment, but Duro knew it could not last long. He was moody and acting childish; anyone who cared for him could not resist the urge to speak up. Especially someone like Auctus, who took so much pride in caring for things. Before Auctus got the chance, though, Duro couldn’t resist the urge to make one more snide remark.

“What would you have done without my help?” he said in a voice thick with sarcasm, as Auctus reached the second-to-last cage.

“I will need it, soon enough,” he said calmly. There was a pause, broken only by soft coos and fluttering wings. Then, in an even voice, Auctus spoke. “Dominus offers you no aid in finding your brother.”

Duro shook his head. He realized then that Auctus’s back was still turned. He had to say it aloud.

“No.”

His voice was rougher than intended. Auctus turned around, concern written in every line of his face.

“He thinks…” Duro hesitated. “He thinks Agron is dead.”

The silence that followed his words was foreboding. The words sounded like a plea, and Duro stared up at Auctus, begging him silently to answer it. Auctus looked back for a moment. His eyes were dark and distant, and Duro wondered how many people Auctus had seen dead.

With a sigh, he turned back to the final cage. Very carefully, he extracted one bird, a small dark pigeon, and sat beside Duro on the bed.

“Will you hold it for me?” he asked. “The wing is newly healed; if I fed the whole cage at once, I fear the jostling might damage it again.”

Duro bit back his desire to lash out. Auctus had not rushed him, so the least he could do was return the favor. He accepted the bird without further comment. It fit perfectly in his cupped palms. Auctus held out his hand, which was filled with bread crumbs, and Duro could feel the muscles of its neck move as it darted forward and ate. It was soothing, in a way.

“Do you agree with him?” he asked.

“You said your brother was wounded?”

“It was shallow,” Duro said, nodding. “High on his chest.”

“Was it properly treated?”

“At first,” he hedged. “A medicus saw him, at the Roman camps by the Rhine. It reopened on the journey, and…”

“How long had it been, when you were sold?”

“Three days.”

Auctus finished feeding the bird in silence. He smoothed the feathers of its head idly, and Duro’s heart sank.

“You think he is dead,” he said. There was a touch of anger in his voice again.

“I think most men would have succumbed sooner. If the wound was shallow, though, and cared for soon after… a dead slave is of no value, and any slaver would be bitter about losing a man fit to be a gladiator over carelessness. Look here,” he said suddenly.

He grabbed Duro’s hand—the pigeon fluttered onto the bed—and held it against his chest. Duro’s thumb rested on top of a short, thick line of scar tissue the exact length of a gladius at its widest point.

“Crixus dealt that to me when he first took to the sands. Had it been a breath higher or lower, I would have died in seconds. As it is, Batiatus would have left me for dead. It is only due to his father’s kindness, and the gods’ blessings, that I remain before you. Sometimes the gods _are_  merciful.”

Duro’s fingers rubbed absently at the scar. An accident of fate had kept Auctus alive and given him to Duro, as an accident of fate had taken his brother from him. Was it too much to ask for a third miracle, which would see him reunited with the two he loved most in the world?

“The gods never gave us a fucking thing that we did not earn,” he said finally with a crooked half-grin. “Mercy would be well-received.”

Auctus smiled warmly, and both hands cradled Duro’s face as he pulled him in for a kiss.

“What being, mortal or immortal, could bear to see you in anguish?” he asked, his lips brushing softly against Duro’s. “Never give in to despair, Duro. I will wear myself out trying to pull you out of it.”

Duro laughed and nuzzled into Auctus’s neck. He nipped gently at the skin there, and Auctus’s hand slid into his hair to hold him close.

“Sometimes I think you’re the only thing keeping me from going mad,” he confessed, his voice a low murmur. “I’d be lost without you.”

“You’re all lost,” Auctus said promptly as Duro began to drift down. The golden skin of his chest was beautiful in half-darkness. “Lost in dreams of glory and gold, and I—” He gasped when Duro’s teeth scraped over the blunt scar tissue. “I am the only fucking sane man in this ludus,” he finished, swallowing thickly.

Duro felt astonishingly pleased with himself. He sat up to kiss Auctus properly again. Auctus’s hands cupped his shoulder blades, his fingers splayed over Duro’s back, as he slowly lowered them to lie on the mattress. Everywhere their skin touched, he felt overwhelming warmth, and his blood was bubbling in his veins. When Duro finally broke the kiss, they were both short of breath.

“Do you ever tire?” he asked teasingly. Auctus laughed.

“Of sanity?”

“Of the insane.”

“Of you, you mean.”

Duro shrugged unapologetically. Of course he wanted forewarning if Auctus would tire and drop him in a week. He ran his hands up and down Auctus’s sides, noting which spots made him squirm.

“Do you?” he repeated. Auctus’s face softened, and he raised one hand to hold Duro by the back of the neck and pull him down for another kiss.

“I’ve never loved a man who wasn’t a fool,” he murmured.

-

Duro stretched out over Auctus’s body like a lazy cat, vocalizing his satisfaction with a breath-heavy moan. His every muscle was limp, exhaustion settled deep into his bones. He reached up with one hand to run his fingers through Auctus’s hair, and Auctus settled affectionately into his touch.

“Will you sleep soundly now, and think untroubled thoughts?” he asked idly. Duro snorted.

“Yes, you miserable wretch. I will not disturb you in the depths of night, tormented by a child’s haunting—”

“—it was a question, not an insult,” Auctus interrupted, pushing at Duro’s chest. He kissed his temple. “My only aim is to see to your happiness.” He paused. “Dominus is not the only man capable of finding a misplaced slave.”

Duro lay still for a moment, hardly daring to hope. He readjusted so he could see Auctus’s face in the dim light.

“Who else?”

“Ashur. His reach is not as far, but a letter in the right hands can be just as valuable as a man set to road—and cost less coin.”

His fingers brushed absently over Auctus’s shoulder as he considered it. Duro could read and write well, but he had no idea how to address it, or which direction to send it in. Everything outside Capua was foreign to him.

“Are you offering assistance?” he asked finally.

“To keep you from despair—anything,” Auctus said. He kissed Duro’s forehead fondly. Duro snorted and shoved him away.

“You court me like a virgin girl.”

“You misunderstand my actions, then; they are driven only by base desires, I swear.”

“How base?” Duro taunted with a sly smile.

His hand dropped to cover the one resting on his stomach, and began to slide lower, but Auctus would not be moved.

“Pity an old man. Let me rest, and do not think I miss the sleep clouding your voice. We are both tired; I’ll ravish you again some other night.”

“Promise?” Duro asked absently.

He yawned and wiggled partially out of Auctus’s grip. He needed space to sleep, or else they would both wake up in the morning with bruises and bad tempers. He was drifting off peacefully when Auctus spoke again.

“Your brother’s name is Agron, is it not?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What is he like?” Duro yawned again; there was a question in his tone, and Auctus elaborated. “You speak of home often, but only in vague terms. Tell me of Agron. Is he tall or fair, short or tall? Does he look like you?”

“No,” Duro mumbled. “We have different fathers. I take after Mama, Agron after his father.”

“What else?” Agron said after a pause. “Is he funny or solemn, kind or stern?”

“Why?” Duro asked. He could not articulate the reason, but the questions made him uncomfortable. He could hear the movement as Auctus turned his head to look at him, but he remained stubbornly facing the other direction.

“Because he’s fucking important to you, and I wish to know your heart. That is all. You need not answer, if you don’t want to. It’s just a question.”

He turned over again, and Duro considered Agron in his mind for a moment. Sleep lapped quietly at the edges of his thoughts, waves on the shore, and he felt the idea of his brother slipping away. Agron was… Agron. His brother. His  _brother_. How could he condense everything that meant into words that Auctus could comprehend?

“Like me,” he said finally. “Only better.”

Duro gave into sleep gladly, before Auctus could reply, and slept without dreams.

***

After that night, Agron found the usual routines easier to bear. His strength and skill continued to improve despite Doctore’s negligence, and his tentative truce with Uxoris was blossoming into true friendship. His battles in the arena were followed, not by contempt and silence, but congratulations and conversations.

Still, he was brought to the ludus, and Levitius took what was desired, but it was easier to bear. Agron simply turned his thoughts towards later in the night, after the Roman had fallen asleep, and Agron could take Nasir in arms, palms pressed to shoulder blades. Nasir’s skin was as warm as sunlight even in the dark, and Agron eagerly ran his fingers over the slope of his bones.

“You fought well today,” Nasir mumbled against his shoulder.

“I fought an idiot,” Agron scoffed. He pulled away and pressed a kiss to Nasir’s forehead. “But gratitude. And apologies,” he said, backing away. He forced himself not to linger. “I did not mean to presume affection.”

“Your touch is always welcome,” Nasir retorted. His hand reached out to trail idly over Agron’s arm and across his stomach. “And if it is not, do not presume that your mere height will save you from my wrath.”

He pinched Agron’s side and Agron yelped with laughter. He stepped forward slowly, pushing Nasir against the wall. Nasir looked up at him, his eyes bright with delight, not fear, and Agron grinned.

“Your wrath, little man?” he said, half-mockingly. “What  _wrath_  can a Roman’s lap-dog possess?”

The words were said in jest, of course. Agron had seen Nasir irritated, at him or others, too many times to suspect that the words would cause real insult. It was a relief, though, that Nasir did not hesitate. He tilted his head up and wrapped his arms around Agron’s neck, pulling him down. Without fanfare, he drove teeth into Agron’s lower lip. Agron’s noise of surprise was lost against the soothing ebb and flow of Nasir’s lips, and for a moment his eyes drifted closed. When they parted, both were short of breath.

“I stand corrected,” Agron murmured. “This little dog is wild, and drawing blood.”

“If a little bite like that is enough to cause complaint, then you are a poor gladiator. Wait,” he added when Agron leaned down to kiss him again. He held up a hand. “I come bearing a gift,” he said with a shy smile. “Sit.”

“But…” Agron pouted, disappointed. Nasir laughed and pushed him away.

“In a moment. You will see why this demands attention.”

They sat on the thin bed, and Nasir produced something from the folds of his cloth. He held it carefully between his palms and opened his hands like a flower unfolding, with a child’s gleefulness in giving. Agron knew the feeling well, and his heart stuttered. He cared nothing for what the gift was; for a moment, he even forgot to look. The expression on Nasir’s face was enough.

But he would not disappoint Nasir, so he looked down.

“Gratitude,” he said, surprised. “This is a valuable gift. What is its purpose?”

Nasir frowned, just a little bit, and spread the piece of paper out over the mattress. It was well-made, but worn, and bore the mark of previous writing—chalk, carefully rubbed out, Agron guessed. Nasir did not bring chalk now, but real ink and a reed pen, which he held with incredible care. Agron had little doubt that this gift had cost more than his own life.

“Paper and ink, to write a letter to your brother. There are two lanistae in Capua, Batiatus and Solonius. If you address the letter to both of them, and include an extra denarii, the gladiators will see it to the right hands”

For a moment Agron could only stare. Then, carefully, he picked up the fragile paper and set it aside. He pulled Nasir into another kiss, firm and sincere.

“The gods have blessed me beyond all others, with such a man,” Agron breathed when they parted. “But the value of this gift lies in the offering, not the acceptance. You need not trouble yourself to such expense. I will purchase—”

“No,” Nasir said hastily, grasping Agron by the wrist. “I want you to keep it. It will not be missed, and you will be glad of the coin spared. Dominus will not be convinced to part with you for anything less than a healthy sum. Save your winnings for that, rather than needless expense.”

“It is not my own freedom I wish to purchase, but Duro’s. Do you wish me gone so quickly?”

Nasir frowned, sitting back. His brows drew together as though he were trying to make sense of Agron’s words.

“What is your meaning?” he asked finally. Agron shrugged.

“I intend to put my winnings towards Duro’s freedom, and bring him here, to Picintia. If I only have enough coin to purchase transport, then he will join me in the ludus. I have no desire to leave the sands quickly. It is no matter to me. I will save up slowly, to purchase our freedom together, if that is desired.”

Agron hesitated. Nasir had, in the past, expressed pride, even happiness, in his position. It would be presumptuous to disregard that pride, of course. And yet, to deny the thrill he felt when Nasir touched him, the deep contentment that spread through his bones when they were together, would be a cruel lie. Boldness had served him well in the past, he decided, and would do the same now.

“Our freedom, and yours, if that is desired,” he corrected himself.

Nasir looked up at him with a curious mixture of pity and surprise on his face.

“No. Gratitude, but no. The best use of your time and efforts would be to go to Capua yourself.”

“ _Nasir_ ,” Agron said firmly, leaning forward to touch a hand to the slave’s cheek. “I will not leave you,” he said softly, his eyes boring into Nasir’s. “Not if the gods themselves saw fit to tear you from my arms.”

“The gladiators in Capua are better known, and better paid, than those in Picintia,” Nasir said in a calm, reasoned voice. “It would be folly to remove Duro from their number; he would not thank you for it, and your winnings would come slower. You should go to Capua. Find Duro’s dominus; offer him coin to pay your purchase, and a loan with generous terms. He should be persuaded to buy you from Levitius, or at least convince Levitius to sponsor you in Capua. There, you will earn glory and coin faster than here, and seek freedom sooner.”

“And you?”

Nasir smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Will be content with knowledge of your happiness.”

Agron frowned. He could think of a million things that could cause Nasir pain if they were separated—many of them dressed in silks and speaking unaccented Latin—and leaving him to their influence left a sour taste in his mouth. He paused until he could word his thoughts in a way that Nasir wouldn’t reject out of hand. For some incomprehensible reason, the slave still sometimes objected Agron’s complaints about the Romans, and slavery as a whole.

“I dislike the thought of being parted for so long,” he admitted in a low murmur.

“You shall have months to reconcile yourself,” Nasir said, kissing him lightly on the lips. His hands crept up to rest on Agron’s shoulders, and then to twine around his neck, and the kiss deepened. “Let us make the most of them.”

For a moment, Agron allowed himself to fall into Nasir’s embrace. It felt decadent, an indulgence he had never had opportunity to sample. Nasir was bold; where Agron’s hands hesitated, his smoothed eagerly over unscarred flesh, caressing every inch of skin and pulling Agron closer to him. He broke away with a laugh, his breath tickling Nasir’s ear.

“Months will not be enough,” he groaned. “I want years.”

“You must include that in your letter, then,” Nasir laughed. “‘I will be delayed; too busy fucking a bed slave—’”

His words were cut off with a small gasp as Agron kissed him again, his weight coming to rest on top of Nasir’s.  _This_  was touch—the kind he wished would never cease. Nasir’s hands reached up to his shoulders and turned his head to the side, exposing his neck, and Agron marveled at the sight of him.

“Duro will have to get used to my descriptions of your mind, your beauty, your heart,” he murmured, pressing loving kisses to the crook of his shoulder and trailing up his neck. “I will speak of nothing else until you are returned to my arms.”

They were so close that Agron could feel Nasir stiffen immediately, and he drew back.

“What is it?”

“Once you leave…” Nasir said reluctantly. He sighed and looked at the ground. “I will not be returned to your arms.”

“You fear the retribution of your Dominus? Nasir—” Agron cupped his face in both hands, and forced Nasir to look into his eyes. “You are the only person who has kept me sane in this fucking place. Do not think I will abandon you so easily. The Romans care only for coin; it may take me years to reach the desired amount, but make no mistake, it  _will_  be reached.”

Nasir smiled sadly.

“You still do not understand the mind of a Roman. There are many things they care for: coin, yes, but also power and spite. Dominus favors you. Were he to know that  _you_  favor  _me_ , he would throttle me himself rather than see me to your embrace. Even if he did not know it was you, he would be reluctant to part with me unless the buyer was another wealthy Roman, or someone to whom he owed a favor; a slave in my position is valued more than you understand.”

Agron was silent. His mind was racing. Stubbornly, he refused to give in. He could not get his brother back if it meant losing the man to whom he had entrusted his heart. Without Nasir, he never would have survived the ludus. Now… he did not think he could survive the rest of the world, either.

Nasir watched him, eyes intent on his face. He tilted his head and touched his lips to Agron’s softly, in a lingering kiss as delicate as rose petals.

“Do not dwell on unpleasant thoughts of the future,” he whispered. “You are with me now.”

“And always.”

Nasir smiled sadly.

“Yes.”


	8. Chapter 8

Duro was reluctant to venture above the villa again. He felt an ominous aura lingering around the place, and was proved right the next time he mounted the steps. All of the gladiators went up. Varro did not come down.

There was no breaking the heavy silence that shrouded the ludus after that, with every gladiator mourning the loss of a brother in his own way. Duro was fidgety for the rest of the night. Auctus complained, but silently wrapped a comforting arm around Duro’s shoulders, not that it helped much. He did not sleep well, and when the next day began he could think only of the dark blood bubbling up around Spartacus’s sword. He looked down at his hands—still clean—and washed them anyway, the oil slipping uselessly between his fingers.

“You do not look to form,” Auctus said with a note of concern in his voice. His eyes flickered to Spartacus, who sat with heavy limbs some feet away. His voice lowered. “Nor does our champion.”

“Mm,” Duro affirmed, his eyes narrowing. “The gods punish him.”

“For what offense?”

“You fucking jest. Varro’s blood still wet upon his hands.”

“His hands were removed from choice,” Auctus said sharply.

“I would die before I killed my own brother,” Duro said boldly. His eyes fell on Spartacus, silently daring the man to speak. He was not disappointed.

“And who would see to your brother’s family?” Spartacus looked up, and Duro’s words were pushed back by the haggard look on the champion’s face. Spartacus stood and approached him, his voice a bitter hiss. “What answer do you give, Duro? With both of you dead, who would see to his wife? His child?”

Duro’s temper flared again, and he stepped forward. How dare Spartacus speak like that of a man he did not know? He had no idea. He could not  _imagine_  what Agron was like. This theory of his meant nothing. Family was everything to Agron, and he would never put his brother in such a position, because he knew that Duro would be unable to stain his hands.  _That_  was trust.  _That_  was brotherhood.

This was a pale mockery, and it infuriated him.

“My brother has no wife or child,” he shouted, but before he could continue, Spartacus’s eyes slid unfocused over his shoulder. He called a slurred word and departed.

Spartacus stormed from the baths, deaf to the world, and Duro watched him bemusedly. Auctus’s lips were pressed tight together. There was no conversation between them until the door of Auctus’s room slammed shut.

“What the  _fuck_  was that?” he demanded angrily. “Spartacus yet grieves, and you—”

“Oh yes, he grieves,” Duro interrupted with a short, mocking laugh. “He grieves like a spoiled child who breaks his toy and says that it has been stolen from him! Varro did not drop dead because the gods wished it to be so, Auctus. He was killed by his friend and brother. You _cannot_  pretend otherwise.”

“I can,” Auctus barked, pacing, his arms folded. “I can believe that Varro died because a fifteen-year-old boy wished it to be so, because a roomful of Romans wished it to be so, because Batiatus had not the balls to stand up to the magistrate’s son. Duro—” He wheeled to face Duro, and Duro was struck by the anger, the borderline  _contempt_  in his face. “Do not tell me that you are so naïve to think that any of us have any fucking choice in this.”

Duro could have hit him.

His hands balled into fists, but he could not step forward. He opened his mouth and found that he could not speak. He broke eye contact and looked away, taking a deep breath to steady his thoughts. When he looked back, he found Auctus watching him uncertainly.

“Is it naïve to think that a man should—should  _stand his fucking ground_  when ordered to murder those dear to his heart? That to kill a brother is a crime unworthy of forgiveness? That _something_  must be sacred?”

The words burst from him angrily.

“Yes,” Auctus said finally. “That is naïve.”

There was a cold, unfriendly silence in the room. Duro nodded stiffly.

“Then fuck you.”

He turned to leave, and wrenched the door open, but Auctus grabbed his arm. This time, Duro really did try to hit him. He swung, and for a moment he struggled in Auctus’s grip.

“Listen to me, Duro,” Auctus growled. “It is naïve to expect every man to hold to the morals you  _wish_  you had held to. It is not wrong, but it is impossible. Your actions and Spartacus’s are not the same.”

“Yes they are,” Duro interrupted, wrenching himself away. “My brother is in chains or dead, because I could not make the choice that Spartacus could not make. Why should he not regret it as I do? Why should he not feel that pain?”

Auctus’s face crumbled in sudden sympathy, and Duro’s heart constricted. He turned his back to Auctus, breathing heavily and trying to regain his composure. He had meant to be angry. He was tired of being weak, tired of needing comfort.

Slowly, Auctus’s hands slid over Duro’s shoulders and down his arms. Duro could still feel his heartbeat pounding, his skin hot with anger, and he wondered if Auctus could feel it, too.

“Had you fought, Agron would have died,” Auctus said simply. “Had Spartacus, Varro would have died, along with his wife and child. Spartacus did what allowed those dear to Varro’s heart to live, and you what allowed your brother to live. We do what we must.”

Duro shrugged him off and wandered over to the pigeon cages. His anger was dissipating like steam. He had never been able to hold on to rage very easily, but that did not mean that the argument needed to be set aside.

“I would do it differently, given opportunity,” he admitted in an indifferent voice, poking through the bars. The birds had taken no notice of the shouting; he wondered if that made them stupider than wild ones, or smarter. “There is always something to be done.”

“No, there isn’t. And even if there were, sometimes men are blind to it. Sometimes… shit.”

He ran a hand through his hair and sat on the bed. Duro waited for a long moment. Finally, he ventured “What—”

“Years ago, I was with another gladiator,” Auctus said abruptly. Duro had never been the jealous type, but he couldn’t surpress the brief surge of irritation that rose in his stomach.

“I’ve never—”

“I  _know_  you have never asked,” Auctus snapped. “And I have never wanted to tell you. But I should have. I have avoided it, not because of regret, or lingering affection, but because of guilt.” He sighed and sat back against the stone wall, his foot tapping anxiously on the floor. “Barca left me for one of the ludus slaves. Pietros. The one with the birds. We had been growing distant for a time, and I told myself I didn’t mind, but—it hurt my pride. And because of that, the boy is dead.”

“I don’t believe you,” Duro interrupted.

Auctus looked up at him, startled, then smiled sadly.

“You would condemn Spartacus for the death of beloved brother, yet you will not hear a word of my story before declaring me innocent? How _good_  do you think I am, Duro?”

“Better than some and worse than others,” Duro said with a shrug. Auctus was a gladiator; he knew that, and he had no illusions about what he would or wouldn’t do for position and rewards. But every man had lines that he would not and should not cross.

He stepped forward and knelt on the bed, knees on either side of Auctus’s legs. He leaned in for a kiss, which Auctus granted with little reluctance. Duro sighed and slipped his arm around Auctus’s waist. The smooth feeling of muscle beneath his hands, the lazy curl of lips against his… this was what he loved about Auctus. He was firm and gentle and constant. Duro needed him. His temper had always burnt out quickly, but with Auctus it felt less like burning out and more like dousing the flames in a cool river. His anger was soothed, his fiercely beating heart began to slow, and by the time he pulled away, his lips were curved in a smile. He regretted shouting.

“Better than most,” he amended with a grin.

“You are trying to distract me,” Auctus said in a soft, playful voice.

“I am not.” Duro ducked his head and kissed Auctus’s shoulder. He mumbled his words against the golden skin. “I am very eager to hear about your ex-lovers, and what you did to their loveboys in revenge for being unfaithful. Ow!”

He wrenched his head away and glared. Auctus had yanked unmercifully at his hair, and stared back with total indifference.

“I am not a perfect person,” Auctus said seriously.

“I know that,” Duro said impatiently. “But I don’t believe that you brought about the death of a man out of  _spite_. I can turn a blind eye to killing in the arena, or in battle. But to kill out of petty jealousy, to kill a lover or a brother or a child or a parent—that I can’t condone, and I can’t believe that you would be guilty of it. I don’t care if that sounds foolish. It’s the truth.”

He was aware that it was uncharacteristic of him to be so serious, and the appraising look in his lover’s eye made him more aware. Duro avoided eye contact and busied himself with trying to memorize the feel of Auctus’s pulse beneath his lips.

“I don’t think you’re foolish. But I’ve never loved an idealist before,” Auctus mused. His fingers ran through Duro’s hair in a gentle apology. “It’s… interesting. No, I did not let Pietros die out of spite, but out of pride. Can you believe me guilty of that?”

Duro shrugged non-committedly.

“Perhaps,” he hedged.

“Then let me finish the fucking story, and you can decide for yourself. Stop that.” He pushed at Duro’s head, and Duro reluctantly ceased his affections. He adjusted his position so he could lie down with his head in his lover’s lap, and closed his eyes.

“Go on, then,” he said, waving a hand.

“Fine. Barca fell in love with a ludus slave named Pietros. They had their hearts set on freedom. A few months ago, the battle that made Spartacus champion also provided opportunity. Barca bet on Spartacus and Crixus to win, and won enough coin to pay for his freedom. He left Pietros behind.” He hesitated and tugged Duro’s hair again, in warning, not punishment, this time.

“Do not repeat this to anyone: I blame Batiatus. Barca bet his entire fortune on impossible odds. He had enough money to free himself twice over, yet Ashur tells us that he could not broker the sale of himself and Pietros. That’s bullshit. I think that Batiatus was bitter about losing one of his most valuable gladiators, so he  _refused_  to free Pietros. Whether he forced Barca to leave or is withholding messages, I do not know. But I knew Barca. I knew his heart. If anything, he would not have left me over a boy he would throw away at the first fucking opportunity.”

Duro grinned to himself, and Auctus’s heated words halted.

“What?” he demanded.

“I can believe you guilty of pride,” he snickered. Auctus bent down and nipped playfully at his lips. Duro opened his eyes for a moment and smiled up at him.

“There is a reason I fuck gladiators,” Auctus continued. “A gladiator thinks himself a god. A ludus slave thinks himself a mortal in Olympus. I am better equipped to deal with your daily heights of arrogance than I was Pietros’s depths of despair.” Bitterness seeped into his voice. “I _deigned_  to tell him what I thought of Barca’s intentions, but I did nothing to protect him. It is as Spartacus said: when a brother dies, you are supposed to take care of those he left behind. I did not. I gave him excuses to avoid those who would cause him harm, but I never confronted them. He was raped, he was beaten, and I… I took care of his birds when he killed himself.”

Duro opened his eyes again. The gaze that met his was dark and distant. He was suddenly aware of the age gap between them, and the uncountable years Auctus had spent within the walls of this ludus. How many dead men had he known? He reached up and touched his lover’s cheek.

“I was cruel,” Auctus murmured. “As cruel as the ones who tormented Pietros, because it was in my power to protect him and I did not. Varro is dead and Barca is gone; Spartacus will see to Varro’s wife as I did not see to Pietros. I don’t understand his sorrow, not really, but I understand his reasoning.”

Duro did not know what to say. He trailed his hand down Auctus’s neck, to the blunt scar at his side. He considered the mark often. It was the closest he had ever come to touching death. Duro did not think it wise to think of death frequently, but it was a difficult topic to avoid of late. He thought about Varro, Pietros, even Segovax and Rabinus and the unnamed recruit. He thought about Agron.

Abruptly, he banished them all and spoke up in a more confident tone than his feelings warranted.

“You are never cruel,” Duro said. “If you have been a fool, so be it. I will not condemn you for sins we share.”

Auctus shrugged absently. They were quiet for a moment, and then he said, “You should make your peace with Spartacus. He did what was right.”

“He did what you wish you had done.”

“What I think to be right. Yes.” He sighed wearily and stretched his sore legs, hissing when Duro’s head bumped against a bruise. “It does not matter.  Soon, the world will right itself.”

***

By the time Agron left Levitius’s villa, his letter was still unwritten—a fact that should not have surprised him, in retrospect. If Agron was never to see Nasir again after attaining freedom, he would make the most of every second, not waste precious time by struggling over his letters. He was yet reluctant to  _admit_  that their time was so limited, but Agron had always been one to err on the side of caution in such matters.

Luckily, Doctore’s apathy provided the gladiators with plenty of time to rest and see to their own affairs, so one morning soon after, he sat down at the tables and began. The process was more laborious than he had anticipated. It had been a long time since he last wrote.

_Duro,  
I am in the ludus of Rubellius, in Picintia, and fighting as a gladiator. Do not fear. I am unharmed and saving my winnings towards your freedom. We will be reunited soon, brother._

“Do not write your name.”

Agron almost jumped at Uxoris’s gravelly voice, speaking from behind him.

“What?”

“Dominus will send your letter to your patron first so he can approve it. Do not sign a name he will not like.”

“My brother knows me by one name only.”

Uxoris shrugged. Agron looked down at his letter, frowning. He wished he could write something in their tongue, but Levitius would almost certainly reject that. Hesitantly, he put his pen down again and signed his Roman name. Then he began to draw a crude map on the remaining parchment.

The Rhine became a thick line of ink bordered by spiky trees at the edge of the page. He drew a small square to indicate their house and then, on a whim, added three tiny figures, their mother and the two dogs. He included the grazing fields, too, and the fence, but there was not enough room to draw the village.

He looked down at the letter with a sense of satisfaction. It was clear and direct. Duro would recognize the map, he was sure. Knowing Duro, though, he wouldn’t have doubted the letter for a moment, even without it. Agron had tried again and again to instill his brother with a sense of self-perseveration, but Duro had not a suspicious bone in his body.

“That your land?”

“Yes,” Agron said, folding the parchment carefully. “Lands east of the Rhine river.”

His thoughts lately had been turned towards finding Duro, a task that would take months on its own. Germania itself was a distant dream, but one that still brought a whisper of a smile to his lips.

“My father kept land beside a river, once. Farming. The Nile gives the most fertile soil you can dream of; we used to get wheat twice my height.”

“An easy task,” Agron said mockingly.

“Watch your tongue, boy. You have height on your side, but I have years.”

Agron set aside his letter and leaned forward. He had reigned in his curiosity before, but now there was no need. Uxoris had more experience than anyone Agron knew, and his knowledge could be useful.

“Is it true you fought in Rome?”

The gladiator nodded gravely.

“Years ago. Rome was mad for fresh blood, and I was taken right from Nubia to the Circus Maximus. You’ve never seen such an arena—pray to the gods you never do. My first dominus set me against beasts instead of men. Lions and boars, mostly.”

He tapped his shoulders and upper arms, which were littered with short, light scars. Agron had taken them for the marks of spear heads, but now he could see that some of them resembled the gouges caused by a boar’s tusks. He did not know what a lion was, but judging by the remaining marks, it had sharp claws.

“We hunted boars in my village for meat.”

“There are none where I come from. First time I saw the ugly fucks, I nearly pissed myself,” he chortled.

“Have you ever fought in Capua? Men or beasts?”

“No. The lanista who had me last was forced to lower my price beyond reason, even more so because I had so little experience against other gladiators. That’s how the old Rubellius was able to afford a gladiator from the Circus; he bought me for the primus of his wife’s funeral games.”

“Is that why—?”

“Impudent whelp,” Uxoris grumbled. “Yes. The other gladiators mocked me with the name ‘Wife,’ so I took it as my own. The same way you parade around the arena as a German barbarian.”

“I parade as nothing,” Agron said sharply.

“Do you not?”

The gladiator peered at him with shrewd eyes, and Agron felt his shoulders straighten in defiance.

“I am a German barbarian. If the Romans find amusement in that, it is no fault of mine.”

“No one said it was a fault,” Uxoris shrugged and sat back. He nodded at the letter on the table. “Your brother, is he in Rome?”

“Capua.”

“You have not written him before.”

“I have just learned of the lanistae in Capua. Sending a letter will be expensive enough, so I thought it better not to send it when I did not know the direction.

“Wise.”

Uxoris stretched out his hand, and Agron drew back, his own hand falling protectively over the parchment.

“It is none of your fucking business.”

“What did you write?”

“That I am well, and fighting,” Agron said shortly.

“Anything else?”

His voice was intent, his gaze hooded, but still Agron was reluctant to give in. Suspicion had been drilled into him at an early age, by a mother who preferred her own counsel to any other’s, by the empty spaces where grandparents, cousins, and friends might have stood. Faith had always been strongest amongst family. His trust in his mother was unshakeable, his loyalty to his brother unconditional.

It had taken slavery to expand that trust, and even then only to Nasir, to the one man he had ever met who could reach his soul with a word and a kiss. Mama and Duro were family. Nasir was family. Uxoris was a friend. Liked and valued, but not kin.

“You attempted to make an enemy of me once,” Uxoris reminded him.

Agron looked at him for a long moment and then glanced down at the parchment. Which was stronger—his distrust of outsiders, or his love for Duro?

Wordlessly, he handed over the letter. Uxoris read it and let out a heavy sigh.

“That was stupid.”

“What?”

“You wrote that you would seek freedom, in plain Latin. That will not sit well with your patron.”

“He cannot expect me to remain in this ludus forever.”

“He purchased you. Saved you from death. If it weren’t for him, you would be dead—do you not owe him a debt of life?”

“I owe him the cost of my life, and I will pay it many times over, if that is needed. I will not let my brother rot in some ludus because I fear the bad opinion of a Roman.”

“It is not always a matter of price. Sometimes pride is worth more than gold.”

He gazed out over the ludus walls, and Agron fell silent. He had seen the same expression on Nasir’s face more than once, when the slave thought back to all he had lost. His own losses were still fresh, sharp and sore as open wounds, while Nasir’s held only the dull sting of bitterness. It was not a pain he could heal, and he knew that nothing he said would have any effect.

Agron wrote the direction on his letter and brought it over to one of the guards, who glanced at him and accepted it with a grunt.

“My account lies with Dominus; the cost is enough.”

The guard nodded, and Agron returned to the table. Uxoris still sat there, lost in thought, and Agron drew his sword and held it out.

“Another match, old man?”

***

It did not take long for Auctus’s prediction to prove false. Tragedy struck the ludus quickly: the following days and weeks saw Ashur raised in Dominus’s favor, Spartacus bowing to the man who had stolen freedom from him, one of the house slaves beaten and set to cart, and Crixus—Crixus, champion of Capua, the strongest of all of them, reduced to blood and tears because of his love.

Duro was already on edge before it was revealed that the praetor was leaving his guards behind at the ludus. When the guards decided they had the authority to haul gladiators around like animals, he broke.

“Fuck ass, you Roman cock!” he spat. One of the other guards punched him and he leapt forward, eager to bleed and to hit back, but Auctus yanked him down to the ground.

“I would caution softer words,” Spartacus said as the guards stalked away. Over the past few days, Duro had made peace with the champion, largely due to Auctus’s intervention. Duro had no desire to heed his advice now, though, and he did not respond.

“This whole house is falling to shit,” Auctus mumbled darkly.

“Perhaps it best not to be present when it collapses.”

There was a solemn pause, and Duro saw Auctus tense.

“What do you speak of?” he asked in a low, steady voice.

“I speak of nothing.”

“Nothing sounds much like escape,” Duro said, leaning closer. It seemed as though even his heart had stopped beating, as though every muscle and nerve in his body knew the importance of silence. “And how would nothing make it past Batiatus and all these fucking Romans?”

“There is but one path,” Spartacus said, turning away. “We kill them all.”

There was something hard and unforgiving in his voice, and Duro’s heart cheered.

“No,” Auctus muttered.

Duro didn’t hear him; he was already lost in thought. Could it be done? Easily. A ludus full of highly trained gladiators against common Roman guards. It was almost laughable to think of. Spartacus, Auctus, Crixus, and Bolin had each fought at 3-to-1 odds before, and with other gladiators at their back, the odds could only improve. The gladiators would have the advantage of skill, training, and surprise; the guards only the advantage of better arms, and even that would be taken away the moment the first man died, and a gladiator set hands on steel.

After that, he knew not what Spartacus had planned. Flight would be more difficult, certainly, but they had among them such a varied group of people—Romans, Gauls, Germans, Egyptians, Greeks—that they would surely be able to find their way somewhere. Duro himself could read a map, and if they freed the villa slaves as well, they would have unbranded compatriots, free to walk into towns for directions, supplies, and information.

“No,” Auctus growled again, seizing hold of Duro’s wrist.

“Why not?” Duro countered.

“Just once,” Auctus griped, his eyes turned heavenward. “Just once, I want to be in love with a man who isn’t a fucking idiot out to get himself killed.”

“You’ve lost your chance at that,” Duro said, miffed at his wording. Auctus glared at him.

“Don’t be so damn sure. Attacking the guards is hardly a foolproof strategy, and when both of you are slaughtered, I swear to the gods I won’t be losing any fucking sleep over it.”

Perhaps he spoke too loudly; Spartacus looked over his shoulder and spoke in a sharp voice.

“Still your tongue; we will speak of this tomorrow, when there is distance between us and prying ears.”

Duro saw the wisdom in his advice and closed his eyes, his mind racing. Slowly, the hand at his wrist slid up his arm and shoulders and pulled him close. Lips touched his ear and spoke feather-light words that chilled his soul.

“If you fail, you will be crucified, and every slave in this villa will be lucky to live.”

Duro turned his head, and Auctus watched him warily.

“You’ve given the best years of your life to Batiatus,” Duro said simply. “Do you wish to give him your last, as well? Living like this?”

Auctus looked at him warily, and Duro knew his words had struck the right chord. Auctus loved being a gladiator, but even more he loved the privileges that it earned him: respect, honor, privacy, a certain degree of leniency. The younger Batiatus’s irrational dislike had already cost him some of those benefits, and the watchful eyes of Glaber’s men would deprive him of the rest. Duro had not missed the curl of his lip when he had prevented Duro from provoking the guards further; that disgust had not been meant for him.

“I wish to  _live_ ,” Auctus finally said, slowly. “By the gods, Duro, I’ve kept you alive this long for a fucking reason. Think of what you have survived—think of your brother.”

“Far easier to find him from beyond these walls than within,” Duro countered. “And I will live  _longer_  with you by my side.”

“It cannot be done. Sleep, and allow foolish dreams to fade in the morning.”

...

As soon as they woke, Auctus could tell that Duro still entertained thoughts of freedom. There was a brightness in his eyes that stubbornly refused to fade, even when the hot sun and the guards threatened his mood. More than once, Auctus turned to see Duro and Spartacus hovering close, their eyes flickering over the other gladiators as they spoke in low tones. He always turned away.

Hamilcar was the first gladiator to join their case, but not the last. Once, Duro tried to bring up the matter with Auctus again. Auctus had merely kissed him on the forehead and walked away. They did not speak about the future after that.

Secretly, he was starting to agree with Duro’s arguments. Life under Batiatus was becoming more unbearable. Auctus had only been allowed in his room for a few supervised visits in order to feed the pigeons. Several of the plumpest seemed to have disappeared, which would have inspired him to murder if it weren’t for the sinking suspicion that the guards were to blame.

He missed having things of his own. He missed the sense of pride in his position. He missed the privacy he had been afforded in years past; it had not mattered so much, then, but when he desperately needed a moment to talk to Duro, and could find no escape from prying eyes, it was irritating.

So they stopped speaking, mostly. He could not bring up his concerns without fear of being heard, and he would not let Duro bring up his own concerns for fear of being convinced.

Still, he sat with Duro and Spartacus at meals—the better to keep an eye on them. He listened with half an ear to their planning, only inserting himself in the conversation to remind them when they forgot to account for obstacles. He found a peculiar kind of delight in pointing out obstacles. Spartacus commented once that, in doing so, he was really only making their plan better, rather than discouraging them. Auctus ignored him, too.

One afternoon, Spartacus was in the midst of speaking when he fell silent, so quickly that Auctus have expected him to drop dead that very moment. He looked over his shoulder to see Doctore approaching.

“Auctus, I would have words.”

Duro looked up, worry in his eyes, but Auctus brushed a soothing hand over his shoulder as he stood. If Doctore had heard words of rebellion, he would not bother to speak to Auctus directly. Doctore looked amused at the gesture, and there was a small smile on his face as they walked further into the bowels of the ludus, away from listening ears.

“Much has changed since we each arrived at the ludus,” he mused.

Auctus laughed. He had not reached the ludus for several years after Oenomaus, but they had been close in age, and thus often thrown in each other’s way. Two small, slight boys raised in the company of gods. He had been—what, fifteen? Sixteen? It was a long, long time ago.

“Balls dropped, position gained, friends lost to freedom and the afterlife. Do the scales balance to our favor?” he asked.

“In my eyes, yes, and the scales rise further.” Doctore’s voice lowered. “Do not speak of this to anyone, even Duro: Dominus speaks of granting me freedom, and title of lanista.”

Auctus’s first instinct was shock. The old Doctore had ruled over the ludus for a lifetime; he had assumed that Oenomaus would do the same. Oenomaus, who worshipped the sacred ground he preached of. It had been only a few years, but already to imagine the whip in another’s hand was difficult. He clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations.

“A tremendous honor, and well deserved,” he said warmly. “Congratulations, Oenomaus Or am I to call you Dominus, now?”

Oenomaus laughed, delight etched in the lines of his face.

“You, no. Batiatus will yet retain that title, and Oenomaus will suit me. It has been many years since I heard the comfort of my own name spoken aloud—a minor curse, but one I fear I must pass on to you.”

Auctus stared back, uncomprehending, and Oenomaus’s smile widened. Auctus was stunned.

“Jupiter’s fucking asshole. You would raise me to position of Doctore?”

“There is none other I would prefer.”

“Bullshit. When Batiatus sought a man to oversee his gladiators, he looked to his champion. It’s the only choice he’s ever made that I fully agree with. The honor should go to Crixus, as you well know.”

“Crixus is champion, yes, but he is young, and has much left to learn. The reason he fell against Theokoles was that he obeyed his own desire for glory above my instruction. I need a man who has been tempered by the years. And besides.” His voice lowered further. “You know, as I do, that the House of Batiatus has seen better days, despite our current good fortune. I seek to regain the honor once lost to us, and that cannot happen with Spartacus as champion. I do not trust the man as I trust Crixus. With a strong lanista, a strong Doctore, and a strong champion, we will restore our former glories, my friend.”

Auctus could not argue with his words. Thank the gods. Thank the fucking blessed gods. With Oenomaus at the head of the house, Spartacus and Duro could not possibly fulfill their goals. They must see that their troubles were soon to be ended. Some would remain, of course. Old scars would not fade, but the wounds would heal.

He nodded, overcome with gratitude, and Oenomaus seized his wrist in a brotherly way. Auctus released him and turned away with a laugh, unable to remain still. A grin teased at the corner of his lips.

"Never would I have dreamed I would live to see you relinquish the whip—for all your reluctance in accepting it. Fuck. You will tell the men, yes? I doubt I could find the words.”

“If you wish,” Oenomaus said, smiling.

“Gratitude,” Auctus said. A thought struck him, and he laughed again. “I must write Barca. The stupid shit despises letters, but an opportunity like this cannot be wasted.”

Suddenly he saw a flicker of uncertainty in Doctore’s eyes. He paused, puzzled.

“What? You don’t think he will be amused? Or irritated, at the very least?”

“No,” Oenomaus said slowly. “It is only—” He sighed and put a hand on Auctus’s shoulder. “I say this is strictest confidence. After Barca left, I spoke to the girl Naevia and to Ashur. Their tales conflicted, and so I went to Dominus.”

“Barca is dead.”

At once, every suspicion he had banished to the shadows met the light, and the words spilled from his lips before he could fully realize them. Auctus’s voice was hard, and Oenomaus’s frown deepened.

“Yes.”

Blood rushed to his head and his stomach rolled. Auctus took a deep breath to calm himself, but the sickness remained. He no longer loved Barca; he still  _knew_  him. Still  _respected_  him. He knew that, if Dominus had taken pains to conceal Barca’s death, then it had not occurred honorably. If Ashur was involved, it was not honestly. Barca had been murdered.

And Pietros… His hand squeezed into tight fists, and then relaxed tiredly. Gods. Auctus had always justified Pietros’s death, in part, by placing the blame at Barca’s door. Barca should have known that Batiatus would be bitter, would take pains to separate them. If he had cared for the boy, he ought to have provided him. If Barca was dead, then the blame was on Auctus’s shoulders alone.

But then, Pietros’s shade had always haunted him.

“How?” he asked in a surprisingly calm voice, though the riotous anger of an approaching storm hovered beneath it.

“He was sent to deliver a message to the money-lender, Ovidius,” Oenomaus said warily. “He went beyond his orders; the man and his family were killed.”

Auctus stepped forward against his will, and anger heated his voice.

“That is what he told you? You believe that is the  _truth_?”

The former gladiator’s eyes swept the room, and his voice dropped again in tone.

“I believe it is the truth that has been told to Dominus. I place the blame with one man. You know of whom I speak, and you know it will be dealt with, once he is not under Dominus’s watchful eye.”

Auctus nodded, though he did not agree. He turned towards the door.

“Gratitude,” he said hollowly. “For—everything. Your wisdom has been invaluable.”

He left before Doctore could respond. Once the door closed, he let loose a blistering stream of curses. Even without the constricting influence of Legatus Glaber, the ludus was slowly descending into hell. Murder, secrecy, suicide, torture—the whole thing brought a sour taste to his mouth. Let the place be damned, then. Nothing he had achieved here was equal to this; nothing could make up for the pain within these walls. Given a torch, he would burn the blasted House of Batiatus to the ground.

He returned to the open air and immediately his eyes fell to Duro. He smiled to himself. Less than an hour before, he had been confident that Duro’s death in rebellion was inevitable.

Now…

He took his place on the bench and pulled Duro into a rough, brief kiss. His teeth worried at Duro’s lip and he could have sworn that Duro smiled. He was always doing that—accepting Auctus’s irritation and anger with a smile, a shrug, a few well-placed words to soothe the wound. It was even better than fighting back, and Auctus pulled away with his mind finally settled, his pulse again regular.

“If you’re going to be an idiot, promise at least not to die,” he said lowly.

“By every fucking god I know of,” Duro swore.

Auctus turned to Spartacus.

“I want your word that Ashur will die.”

Spartacus nodded cautiously.

“What fuels such rage?”

“His crimes are as numerous as the arena’s sands; it makes no difference which one he is punished for.”

ldquo;It will not be difficult to ensure the death of a man that every gladiator hates. I will see it done.”

Auctus nodded his thanks.

Duro did not think to ask about Auctus’s conversation with Doctore until later that night, when they managed to steal a few private moments tucked behind a pillar inside the ludus.

“He wanted nothing,” Auctus said absently, pressing a kiss to his eyebrow. “Only memories…. When the day comes, I would not see him harmed.”

Duro’s expression soured.

“If he does not interfere, then—”

“He  _will_  interfere, and yet I would not have him harmed. Oenomaus is an honorable man, bound to a dishonorable house; it is his only failing. I count him as friend, even if you do not.”

Reluctantly, Duro nodded.

“I will do my best to avoid reach of him.”

“Gratitude.”

Auctus kissed him again. For a long moment they were still, merely breathing and enjoying the comfort of touch. Then Auctus reached up to take Duro’s face in both hands. Duro slid rough palms over his biceps, and Auctus sighed happily. It hardly seemed possible that Duro—eager, stubborn, brash Duro—could provide the kind of steady affection that he had been craving, but it was true, and he was grateful.

Unbidden, the thought of Oenomaus’s offer floated through his head. It was so close, everything he had ever dreamed, and riches beyond that, within his grasp.

Duro’s hands were suddenly at the back of his head, pulling him down further, and Auctus diverted his thoughts. There would be no such future; Duro was set on rebellion, and Auctus was set on Duro. Fuck, if there was  _life_  after this, he would count himself lucky.

He tilted his head and parted lips, but Duro pulled away, panting.

“Your thoughts are elsewhere,” he said accusingly.

“Apologies. The future intrudes.”

“The future, the past—you’re fucking everywhere except here, with  _me_ ,” Duro complained. He bit Auctus’s lower lip as a rebuke, and his hands trailed down Auctus’s stomach. Auctus groaned. “Come to bed.”

 _I will go everywhere with you_ , he thought, and buried his head in Duro’s shoulder.


	9. Chapter 9

_It was a dream—he knew it must be a dream. His thoughts were a confused blend of German and Latin he could never decipher when awake. Only in his dreams was it so. He could feel the sunlight on his face, the warmth of the dogs beside him, smell the familiar furs and… rose petals._

_Slowly, Agron sat up and looked around the room. It was morning, and in the empty doorway to the next room, he saw a figure—short, with long black hair and wearing a loose shift._

_“Nasir?”_

_No. The figure turned and he saw it was his mother, though her face was smoother than he remembered, her hair not yet streaked with grey. She smiled at him and approached the bed, holding out a pink flower. He stood to kiss her cheek._

_“You’re late.”_

_“Apologies.”_

_“They’re waiting.”_

_“I will go presently.”_

_“Faster.”_

_Without knowing why, Agron obeyed her order. He ran out of the house as fast as he could, the dogs at his heels, until he reached the grazing pasture. Nasir stood by the trees, watching the goats with idle curiosity. He was dressed like a rich Roman, in deep red silk, but his hair was plaited and tangled with flowers. Agron fell to his knees before him, overcome with relief._

_“Thank the gods you’re here,” he said, his voice muffled, and Nasir stroked his hair soothingly._

_“The gods show mercy. But you cannot linger—set your feet towards the arena, quickly.”_

_“The arena?” Agron hesitated. A cold fear settled down into his very bones at the word, despite how familiar he had become with it in the past few months. “Why?”_

_“Because you’re a gladiator!” Nasir laughed. He tilted Agron’s chin up and kissed him deeply. “Go; I will be there.”_

_Agron frowned, but he turned back and walked out of the pasture. He kept walking, and then the sea was beneath his feet, and sand, and he was in Capua, underneath the dusty boards of the arena. Uxoris was at his side, Doctore’s whip at his belt._

_“Hard match, this one,” Uxoris grunted. “Keep your guard up.”_

_“I bought my fucking freedom,” Agron snarled. Furiously, he began pulling gold coins from his pockets by the handful. He spilled a thousand at the gladiator’s feet, but he was pushed into the arena anyway._

_“Fortuna’s blessings,” Uxoris said as the door banged shut._

_The other gladiator was a murmillo, his face obscured by a heavy helmet, but Agron knew it was his brother the second he saw him. Dumbly, he held up his shield at the last possible moment to block Duro’s blow._

_“Have you gone fucking mad?” he demanded._

_Duro did not answer, merely struck forward again with more power than Agron knew he had, faster and faster. Agron’s shield flickered back and forth, attempting to block each strike, but it was not enough. Finally, he was forced to attack. He swung wildly, and his sword clanged against the gladiator’s helmet. He fell to the ground, and his face was revealed. He looked up at Agron, frightened, as though he did not recognize him._

_“Duro—”_

_Duro’s gaze shifted, and Agron looked up to see the editor watching them with a cold stare. Levitius._

_“No,” Agron muttered. His voice built to a shout, pleading for mercy, but the Roman only frowned at him, and slowly turned his thumb down. Nasir looked down at him, his face a mask of pity and defeat. He was again in his slave clothes, his hair unbound, and Agron had never felt more helpless. “I won’t—I won’t—no, not my brother, I can’t—”_

_Agron threw away his sword and knelt. He slung one of Duro’s arms over his shoulder and helped his brother stand. Duro leaned on him heavily, muttering a slew of faint words in German._

_“Ich… bruhder, finden, bruhder…”_

_He coughed, and black blood spilled over his lips. Agron watched, horrified, as blood poured from his mouth, as his skin turned pale and the sand beneath them red._

_“No! Duro, for fuck’s sake, I bought our freedom. Do not listen to that fucking Roman. Don’t…”_

Agron woke slowly, trapped between consciousness and unconsciousness until he almost couldn’t bear it any longer. When at last he was able to open his eyes, and breathe freely, he found that it did not help; still, the nightmare remained in his sight. Every drop of blood, every grain of sand… every line of Nasir’s face…

Gods.

He rolled over on his side, his mind a whirl of thoughts. He could no longer wait for news of his brother, and he could no longer pretend that he would willingly leave Nasir in the hands of a Roman. It would kill him, as surely as a sword to the chest. Agron closed his eyes again, and began to plan.

***

Tension filled the air on the day of the rebellion. Those who followed Spartacus were keenly aware of their actions; those who held with Crixus noticed as well. Duro found himself talking overloud once or twice, and at a faster pace than usual, while Auctus answered in as few words as possible. Then, in the early evening, he turned to Doctore and asked permission to feed the birds. Permission was granted, and Auctus took Duro by the arm.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Duro froze.

“What the fuck happened?” he asked, shocked. A single, speckled pigeon—Auctus’s favorite—remained in its cage. The rest were gone.

“I let them go,” Auctus said simply. “Most people can’t tell them apart; no one noticed that the bird I had at noon was different from the one in the morning, or that the one fluttering through the halls was not the one I had taken into the yard. It’s been slow work, but I could not leave them here.”

He crumbled a crust of bread in his hand and unlocked the final cage. The bird hopped faithfully towards him with a soft coo.

“I’ll miss these feathery little rats,” Duro said fondly, and Auctus flashed a sad smile.

“You couldn’t tell the difference, either,” he pointed out. Duro rubbed his thumb over the bird’s forehead.

“This is the one you had as a chick. The one who takes three-day trips and comes back unharmed.”

“Yes.” The pigeon finished eating and ruffled its wings placidly. Auctus sighed. “It must be done.”

“Those claws are not sharp enough for battle,” Duro agreed. They began walking through the ludus again, and Duro drew close. He pressed a kiss to Auctus’s cheek. “I know it is difficult,” he murmured. “But the gods will lead us down the right path.”

“You have more faith than I do.”

“I am more naive, you mean.”

The air was just beginning to glint gold when they emerged, and Duro reached up to shield his eyes from the light. The pigeon stretched eagerly, almost bursting from Auctus’s grip.

“Ungrateful brute,” he muttered.

They approached the the ludus walls. Auctus stroked the bird’s warm body and then lifted it up to the edge of the walls. The pigeon took to the skies joyfully and fluttered off across the plains of Capua. Duro reached over to squeeze Auctus’s wrist comfortingly. The moment skin touched, Doctore called for the gladiators to line up in order to be chained. Duro took a deep breath.

-

All it took was the smallest of movements, Crixus's fingers, curling around his shield, for the world to erupt. Duro's whole body tensed at once, every muscle coiled for action, as Spartacus mounted the sky. Time stopped, and then howled forward.

Auctus was one of the fastest gladiators, and one of the first to dive into battle. He ran forward and then slid to his knees in front of one of the guards, avoiding the Roman's sword and knocking the wind out of him with his elbow. Hurriedly, Duro joined him. He smashed the guard in the face three times before the man fell, dropping his sword in order to shield his face. Auctus made short work of him.

"You're better with the sword," he said quickly, shoving he weapon into Duro's hands. He stripped the guard's buckler shield from his belt as he spoke. "Take care of the guards; I will arm those defenseless."

Only a quarter of the gladiators had managed to acquire swords; they were capable of disarming the guards, but this would be easier. Auctus shouted for their attention and several, including Bion and Laz, followed him.

Duro had no time to watch their progress. The gladiators were outnumbered, and several of them were abandoning the ludus in order to assist Spartacus upstairs. Immediately, he was drawn back into the fighting.

After a few furious, bloody moments, he noticed that they had returned, freshly armed. Auctus wielded his spear with deadly skill, and Duro almost laughed as he cut down another Roman. This--this was simple. Hardly a challenge. The gladiators always said that they were worth five common fighters; Agron had always said that a warrior of the Rhine was worth ten Romans. It was true. His blade cut through flesh like air.

Suddenly, he saw a guard approaching Hamilcar from the side, his face twisted in an ugly snarl. Duro shouted his name and jumped forward, his sword raised. The blade met the guard’s with a harsh clang, and Hamilcar whirled around just as Duro’s sword slid through the man’s throat.

“Fuck,” he panted. “Gratitude.”

Duro let out a blistering stream of curses as he shook out his wrist; the block had been at an awkward angle, and so strong that he could feel his bones rattling.

“You fucking owe me for that,” he said with a grin.

“I think that shit is the one with the keys.”

Immediately, Duro bent down to riffle through the guard’s pockets and belongings. Sure enough, he found a ring of keys and crowed in triumph. With fumbling hands, he unlocked their shackles. Hamilcar saluted with his sword, and they returned to battle.

As the battle progressed, Duro found himself fighting by Auctus. Spear in hand, the gladiator fought like a god. They moved in tandem, noticing each other’s blind spots automatically and moving to cover them. Guards were dropping like flies around them, until Duro took a vicious sword-hilt to face. He slashed the guard’s throat easily, but Auctus say the blood flowing down his cheek and turned, distress in his expression.

There was no time to warn him. Duro spotted the guard coming at Auctus’s back and shoved his lover away. He was too slow to raise his own sword, too slow to do more than twist out of the direct line of movement. The guard’s blade sliced through his skin, drawing a harsh shriek from Duro’s lungs.

He hit the ground heavily on his knees, one hand flying to the wound. The blood felt thick, like mud squelching between his fingers, and his hands clumsy as he tried to press down, instinctively trying to staunch its flow. His ears rang with Auctus’s voice, though he could hear no words, and he felt himself falling. Warm arms splattered with cold blood caught him.

“Damn it, Duro,” Auctus growled. “Gods fucking  _damn_  it.”

“I learned from the best.” Duro tried to grin, but Auctus shifted his weight just slightly and his breath caught in a hiss. A thick cloth was pressed to the wound and black spots danced before his eyes. He felt weak. His eyes squeezed shut.

“ _Don’t_. Just—hold that there, come on, keep pressing it you stupid selfish fucking  _shit_.”

“I’m dying and you’re being an ass,” Duro complained. Auctus hit him in the head, which didn’t help with the dizziness.

“You’re  _living_. I told you not to launch this fucking thing if you couldn’t survive it. Hold the cloth there. I will return.”

Auctus kissed his forehead and disappeared, and Duro’s head hit the ground with a thump. He opened his eyes and stared around him at the dark purple sky. The sounds of death and dying surrounded him, but the metallic clash of swords was fainter than he remembered. Most of the guards were probably dead. They must be, if Auctus was willing to leave him.

After a moment, he worked up the courage to look down at his side. The cloth pressed to the cut was one of the guard’s cloaks, as red as blood, so he could not tell how bad it was, but he knew that his fingers were soaked. With morbid curiosity, he lifted the makeshift bandage just slightly. A groan forced its way from his lips, and another round of nausea and pain swept through him. He turned away, looking towards the ludus. Where had Auctus gone? To fetch medicus? Duro didn’t even know if medicus was still in the ludus, or up in the villa, or in Capua. Surely no one had expected him to be needed tonight.

He hoped that was not where Auctus meant to go. It could take him a long time to find the man, and Duro did not want to die alone.

He didn’t want to die at all, he thought with a shiver. His mother would never know what had happened to him. He should have written a letter to her, at some point, but he had been saving his winnings to find Agron. Gods. Agron might find out; he knew that Duro was in Capua, and a gladiator rebellion was sure to be a thing of gossip. Agron would know, but Duro did not want to imagine what his reaction would be. It would be better for Agron not to know.

Tears were in his eyes when a figure emerged from the ludus, only visible in the darkness from where the torchlight glinted on his skin. He knelt by Duro’s side and cradled his head with gentle hands.

“Drink.”

Duro gulped obediently and tasted wine, which cleared his head slightly. Then, without warning, something was poured over the wound and it felt as though it were set on fire.

“Goatfuck,” he cursed, gritting his teeth. “Ah,  _fuck_. Fuck the gods, what is that?”

“Vinegar,” Auctus said shortly. “It will help. Hold still.”

Duro bit his lip as the needle pierced his skin. He was no stranger to needles; honestly, he preferred that to the vinegar, which still sizzled in his raw flesh. The stitches were slow going, as Auctus progressed with utmost care and attention, ever so often pausing to blot the blood, or tilting his head in order to best catch the light.

And when he was done, his head fell to Duro’s chest and he let out a long, shaky breath that sounded half a sob, and Duro didn’t know what to say. They sat there for a long moment while Auctus recovered himself. Finally he looked up and kissed Duro on the lips. There were tear tracks on his face, though he neither brushed them away nor acknowledged them.

“Gratitude,” Duro said quietly. Auctus nodded. “Weaker men have survived worse, you know. And I am not so easily dispatched of.”

“I know. I know. Do not—do not  _fucking_  move, or I swear by all the gods, I will kill you myself.”

Duro remained obediently still as Auctus vanished into the villa. He was gone for longer this time, and when he returned it was with Crixus at his side.

“The pup overreaches himself,” Crixus snorted, but his voice was muted.

“He saved my life,” Auctus said shortly. “Help him up.”

“Good man,” Crixus said gruffly, approval in his voice, as together they managed to get Duro into a standing position without tearing the stitches.

“Ashur,” he said, suddenly remembering Auctus’s insistence that the Syrian should be killed. Auctus’s arm tightened around him reflexively.

“Do not speak to me of that shit while your blood is still on my hands.”

“But you—”

“Oenomaus will have seen to him,” he said firmly. “It is my task to see to you.”

The dizziness worsened, and Duro leaned heavily on Auctus as they walked. He nearly blacked out as they mounted the stairs, but together the three of them managed to enter the courtyard just as Spartacus began to address the remaining slaves.

“I have done this thing because it is just,” Spartacus shouted, and even Duro’s weak fingers itched to curl around a sword. Crixus noticed his eagerness.

“You cannot destroy Rome, nor find your brother, when you faint with each step,” he pointed out once Spartacus’s voice gave way to the cheers of gladiators. “Come. We must carry you if we wish to make any speed from this fucking place.”

“Then go find a stretcher, and tell Spartacus that we have wounded to treat,” Auctus commanded. Crixus nodded and disappeared.

“The search would go faster if you aided him,” Duro pointed out.

“And leave you alone again? I am not a fool.”

“Only in love with one.”

“Yes,” Auctus said in a low voice. Duro leaned against Auctus’s shoulder again and closed his eyes


	10. Chapter 10

“You sleep in your own bed tonight,” Chadara laughed. “How uncommon!”

“Chadara!” Nasir hissed in warning. His eyes darted over to the bed where their dominus slept. The even breathing reassured him that all was well, but still he stood and joined Chadara at the entrance to the bedchambers, and guided her down the hallway. She rolled her eyes.

“You worry too much. You saw how much wine he drank. I thought his cock would swell with it, to tell the truth, and never have I been so glad to be wrong.”

Her brashness made Nasir smile, as it always did, though he tried to be stern.

“Still, sometimes concern is necessary, when a friend speaks words that would see me to the mines if discovered.”

“And what would you do in the mines?” she  said dubiously. “What would Dominus do, without you by his side? But you turn words from purpose—as you often do, when the purpose is a certain gladiator often found within these walls. Speak.”

“Of what? Lupinius was well, last I saw, although chafing in the manacles of his dominus, as always. You have seen him yourself. You know his form, the size of his cock, and the number of his victories. What else is of interest?”

Chadara grinned and put her hand on his arm, leaning closer.

“The blush upon your cheek, and its cause.”

Nasir couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face, though he did avert his gaze, much to Chadara’s amusement.

“He has expressed… affection,” he admitted.

“Affection,” she repeated dismissively. “Desire and devotion are worth more.”

Unbidden, Agron’s words from the other night drifted through Nasir’s thoughts _. I will not leave you. Not if the gods themselves saw fit to tear you from my arms_. The words interrupted the steady beat of his heart, and he shrugged off Chadara’s gaze.

“Desire and devotion lead only to pain,” he said shortly.

Chadara snaked her arm through his and led him into a small, abandoned room—but it did not look abandoned now, illuminated by two yellow lamps and arranged with pillows, a bowl of nuts and figs, and two goblets filled to the brim with pale purple drink.

“As does wine,” Chadara said smugly. “And yet you will drink with me, will you not?”

“I forgot,” Nasir apologized as they sat down.

It had become a habit years ago, when Chadara had first arrived at their villa. She had shown a particular knack for persuading the kitchen slaves to give her favors. After a few weeks, she found that the wine would not help her seduce Nasir and gain position, but it had become a monthly tradition. Chadara fell back on the pillows and snatched a handful of almonds, waving him away.

“It is of no consequence. You shall repay me by telling me about your gladiator.”

“Do not speak of him as mine,” Nasir said in a cross voice.

He reached for a goblet and took a sip. It was watered and crisp—good, but very unlike the sweet, rich offerings given to Agron and shared with Nasir. The thought struck him as very funny. Of all things, falling in love had turned him into a wine critic!

 _Love_. He had not meant to think that word. Frowning, he bit into the soft flesh of a fig and avoided Chadara’s cunning gaze.

“Why not? Because he does not wish it?”

“Because if anything, he is  _Dominus’s_  gladiator, not mine, and no good can come of anything greater than affection.”

“No good can come of affection, either,” Chadara said, raising an eyebrow. “And yet you allow yourself that.”

“Chadara.”

“You’re already fucking him, aren’t you?” she asked. Nasir opened his mouth to protest, closed it again, and tried to hide his red face behind his goblet. “That alone proves deeper attachment. He is a gladiator, Nasir. Whores would pay for the privilege of lying with him and there isn’t a woman in Picintia, patrician or plebe, who turn up her nose.”

“Agron does not favor women,” Nasir said sharply.

“You are easy to bait, though you would not call him yours,” Chadara said with a knowing smile.  
  
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She shrugged silently and they were quiet for a moment. Then Chadara sighed.

"I cannot understand it. This is the first time you've ever liked someone,  _really_  liked someone, and he is in a position to provide everything you could wish--and yet you dismiss it as mere folly."

Nasir cradled his wine cup, avoiding eye contact. He wanted desperately to give in. Both Chadara and Agron had been urging him to abandon mind in favor of heart, and gods, did he wish it. His mind was not so easily dissuaded. Nasir knew all too well how the winds of fortune changed, and he was not in a position where he could trust the whims of the weather.

Despite his protests, though, thoughts of Agron swelled his heart almost to the point of pain.

"He... he offered to purchase my freedom," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I said no."

Chadara looked dumbstruck. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then drained her wine.

"Why?" she asked.

She was feigning casualness, almost disinterest, but Nasir knew her well enough to hear the jealousy buried in her tone. Chadara had had many more lovers that Nasir—some forced upon her, some of her own choosing. Many had offered her gifts, but such a precious thing as freedom that never been one of them.

"What would I do with freedom? What would you?"

Chadara shrugged and helped herself to more fruit. She ate slowly as she spoke, with a consideration that revealed her words to be result of much thought.

“I could work as a wash woman, or a seamstress. Have children, if I still can. I’ve always longed for a daughter, you know. I suppose a husband is necessary for that.”

The joke was feeble. It did not hide the pain that flashed across her face. Nasir gazed on her face, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and her eyes closed to the world, and felt humbled to be her friend—she, who talked so rarely of her own troubles and yet asked readily after his own. How often had he seen her with silphium in hand? And yet she had rarely accepted comfort. Chadara did not like him to fuss.

"May Vesta bless you," he said quietly. He touched her arm gently, and she smiled up at him. “I hope that you find that future—but what would  _I_  do with it? I know how to do a thousand things, but none of them well. The only thing I would be able to do is trade my position now for that of a gladiator’s concubine, and I would not want that, you know I wouldn’t. Freedom is simply not worth the cost.”

Chadara’s eyes flickered up to his. She hesitated, her lips trembling, and leaned closer.

“What if the cost were less dear?” she asked, her lips barely moving.

“I don’t understand your meaning.”

"There has been talk in market of late. A group of slaves in Capua have freed themselves.”

Nasir couldn’t hide his shock. He had known slaves who were freed before, and even one or two who had escaped—though most were caught, in the end—but an entire group? How large?

“Escape?” he asked. Chadara shook her head.

“Escape from a dead man’s villa. They were mostly gladiators; they fought their way to freedom, and have thus far evaded detection.”

He had lost the capacity for speech. This was not escape—this was out and out  _rebellion_. Such a thing was unheard of. All slaves knew the penalty of drawing Roman blood: endless torture, followed only by death on the crucifix, to be shared by every slave in the villa if they succeeded killing their dominus. It was madness, but somehow it was not terror that sent his thoughts racing.

Once the initial shock began to settle in, Nasir thought suddenly of Agron's brother, and again his heart jumped. There was a one-in-two chance that Duro was among the escaped gladiators. The only question was whether he was even now heading to Picintia, or set back on the path to their tribe. Either one was likely; Agron had said that Duro did not know where he was.

"Do you know if a gladiator called Duro was with them?" he asked. Chadara shrugged.

"I have heard only of their leader, Spartacus. Presumably the other champions of the House of Batiatus are with him, but I do not know. Think of it, Nasir: a whole house full of gladiators, escaped and still eluding the eye of Rome. Such a thing has never happened before."

"And if it had, we are not likely to have heard of it," he remarked cynically. "They are probably halfway to Gaul by now, or Thrace."

"Assuredly," Chadara agreed with a sigh. "Pity—I'm sure I could easily find my own gladiator within their ranks."

“It—” Nasir hesitated. “It is possible that other gladiators may follow their example.”

Chadara set her goblet down, abject astonishment written on her face.

“Would you wish for it?” she asked.

“No… I have respect and position here. I would not throw that away for any man. But if I were offered—more than freedom, offered a place in the world—it would be powerful temptation.”

“Then tell him,” Chadara said in a firm voice. She grasped his arm and forced him to look up into her eyes. “Advise your gladiator to rouse his ludus at first opportunity. I beg of you, Nasir, as someone who yet remembers the taste of freedom. It is just as you say—a place in the world, of one’s own choosing, is the most precious thing.”

Nasir did not know how to respond. Her words had a powerful ring to them, but still he was afraid—afraid of something more powerful, deeper than the horrors that awaited failure.

At that moment, they heard footsteps outside the door, and both slaves jumped with the instinctive terror of startled rabbits. The figure that appeared in the door, though, was only the girl Cyra, whom the other house slaves often used as a messenger.

“What is it?” Nasir asked, tempering his irritation so as not to frighten her. She bobbed her head respectfully, though her eyes were still heavy with sleep.

“There is a man at the door for Dominus.”

Chadara and Nasir exchanged quizzical glances.

“This late?” Chadara said with a frown.

“He says it is important.”

“Hide the wine,” Nasir muttered to his companion. “I will go.”

He followed the girl to the door, where a stern-faced Roman soldier repeated his desire to see Levitius, on a matter of urgency which he dared not impart to a slave. Nasir accepted this, and went to wake his master—an unpleasant task, when the effects of wine yet clung to the Roman.

At his direction, the soldier had been shown to the small study. Nasir led his dominus there, and was immediately dismissed. Faithfully, he stood beside the door.

In his sleepy, half-drunk state, Dominus had forgotten that the small study was one of the least secure in the house. Nasir leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and listened.

“I have come from Seppius Marcius,” the soldier began, his voice muffled only slightly by the door. “He has been charged with tracking the rebel gladiator Spartacus and his followers.”

“Is that fucking all?” Levitius complained. “For Jupiter’s sake, if Seppius seeks my aid at this hour, the barbarians had better be outside my fucking gates.”

“He believes that, at this moment, Rome’s greatest enemy is not a few paltry gladiators,” the messenger said in a smooth voice. Nasir tried to still the furious pace of his heart so he could hear better. “It is the influence they may have over otherwise loyal slaves. Every patrician in Italia is encouraged to crucify any of his slaves who speak the name of Spartacus; Seppius also recommends confining any slave to the house who has proven mistrustful in the past. The reason I come at such a time is because of the urgency of my message. It is believed that Spartacus and his gang are heading south. They may reach Picintia and neighboring villas within a week.”

There was a sharp rustling of paper, and Nasir surmised that Levitius had snatched something from the guard’s hands. There was a moment of silence as he read it over.

“Gratitude,” he finally said, and Nasir knew his dominus well enough to know that the man was deep in thought, and not happy about it.

He himself could hardly breathe for happiness. If the rebels were en route to Picintia, they could not possibly pass through without liberating the ludus. Agron would not forget him. He knew he would not. Nasir could not in good conscious wish for such a thing, or to encourage it, but if the choice were to be removed from his hands—well, what could he have done?

It would be the last choice to be removed from his hands, he thought resolutely. For too long Nasir had lived with the collar at his throat. There must be some place in a rebellion where he could be useful, and he would put himself to use. After that…

Death did not scare him. Life worried him more, but he could not hesitate. Not with Agron at his side and Chadara at his back. His heart soared with praise and thanks.

Suddenly, the door beside him burst open, and every muscle in his body froze. The soldier swept past him without seeing, and headed towards the entrance again, but before Nasir could even think to creep away, Dominus stood in the doorway. Immediately, Nasir bowed his head and affixed the blank, dull, disinterested mask of a well-trained slave.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Levitius turn his head and spot him. Unable to resist, he glanced up and saw black rage contort his master’s face.

...

“Line up,” Doctore barked one morning. He looked more miserable and more sober than Agron had ever seen him, and he kept a tight grip on his whip. Most of the gladiators waited, looking towards the ludus slaves who usually provided them with weapons, but Doctore cracked the whip in the air to encourage them. “Dominus is to inspect the ludus this morning. Now line up, you wretched shits, and for the love of cunt keep silent.”

Agron glanced at Uxoris, a question in his gaze, but the veteran only shook his head. In all the time Agron had been at the ludus, he had seen their dominus only on the trips to and from the arena. Perhaps some lanistae were attentive in caring for their gladiators, but Titus Rubellius was not one of them. Judging by Uxoris’s expression, an inspection was highly irregular.

The gladiators arranged themselves in a line. They remained still for nearly half an hour, when the gates opened and Dominus strode through them. To their surprise, he was not alone. Behind him trailed four other Romans, including Levitius. With a frown, Agron looked for Nasir, ever-present as his side, but he was not there. None of the Romans were followed by slaves. If he craned his neck, he could see a small party of people standing in the shadow of the gate, but Uxoris stomped on his foot, and he faced forward again

Slowly, the party of rich men made its way down the line as the gladiators stared straight ahead, and tried not to let their curiosity show on their faces.

“As you can see, Doctore keeps them well trained. They react promptly to orders, and no man even hesitates with disobedience in his thoughts. Ah, Atellus is your client, is he not, Curtius?”

They continued like that down the row. Rubellius waxed poetically on the rigor of Doctore’s training, the loyalty of the gladiators, the absolute trust that the Romans could have in his own word. It was almost amusing to Agron, to listen to the Roman spinning tales out of the air. He could not help but wonder if he truly thought his ludus was run like this, or if he simply gave no shit.

It also became clear that every man who accompanied him was the patron of one of the gladiators, and so Agron was not surprised when they stopped in front of him. He kept his gaze level, and tried to look as blank and distant as possible. It was not in his nature to be submissive, but he had learned firsthand that to attract the attention of a Roman was not a good thing.

“No doubt you all recognize Lupinus; he has had some successes in the arena recently. He is the newest to the sands, and to slavery, and yet already his barbaric instincts have been stripped away, except by my orders. A tiger to his enemies—a kitten to his Dominus. Levitius, you are his patron; I am sure you would agree.”

Levitius made a non-committal sound. His expression was one of extreme irritation, and Agron avoided eye contact.

“I suppose. But it is folly to trust in the nature of a slave. Even a simple mind is capable of betrayal.”

Rubellius’s smile faded a little bit, but he rallied admirably and began to lead his guests into the villa, talking about dinner and entertainment. Finally, the cluster of shadows at the gate stepped into the light as the slaves followed their masters into the house. Agron saw Nasir, but he was at the back of the group, and he did not look around.

Frowning, Agron turned to Uxoris.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked. The gladiator shrugged.

-

Later that night, Agron received an answer. He was sitting in his cell, waiting for sleep or Nasir to come, when the door to the ludus opened, and quiet footsteps pattered down the steps. He stood immediately and pressed himself against the bars. Sure enough, Nasir walked right to him.

“I have only a moment,” Nasir said breathlessly. “Listen to me—the patrons—”

In the low light, it was difficult to be entirely sure of what he saw. Agron stopped breathing as he gently caught hold of Nasir’s jaw and turned his face, exposing his cheek to the lamplight. Nasir fell silent.

“What happened?” Agron asked in a low, dangerous voice. Nasir reached up to touch his wrist.

“I… it’s not important anymore.”

The left side of Nasir’s face was swollen and purple, with two long scratches below his cheekbone. His lip was swollen, and when Agron looked closer, he saw similar, but fainter, bruising on his right side, as well. He stepped back and ran his eyes over Nasir’s body. There were more marks of rough handling on his wrists and thighs and shoulders.

“I will  _fucking_  kill him,” Agron swore.

“It is nothing,” Nasir said quietly, his eyes turned towards the shadows. “And—”

“ _Nothing_?” Agron began to say, but Nasir spoke over him.

“—will you not let me speak? There are more important matters to speak of.”

“You are important to me,” Agron insisted in a low whisper. He pressed himself against the bars of the cell and reached out. He wanted to touch—but his hand hovered in the air, hesitating. Nasir leaned his cheek against Agron’s palm and released a shaky breath.

“I know. Give me leave to respond when time is not an issue. Listen to me now: the patrons are here because there has been a revolt. Batiatus’s ludus rose up under the guidance of their champion, Spartacus; all of the gladiators are free, and the Romans in the house slaughtered. Rumors are that they move south, freeing slaves—that is why…” He gestured to the bruises with a casualness that sickened Agron. “I overheard that news, and this my reward.  _Focus_. You understand what this means?”

“Batiatus,” Agron said finally. “The lanista from Capua. You think Duro was among the gladiators?”

“It is possible.”

“What of the other lanista?”

“Of Solonius, I have heard nothing. The patrons were here to check the security of the ludus, for fear that other gladiators may follow Spartacus.”

Agron understood his meaning in an instant, and a craggy grin stretched across his face.

“That is what you have come to ask of me.”

Nasir kissed him, the rough metal pressing against his cheek.

“Gather the other gladiators to your cause; if Spartacus reaches my villa first, I will send him here. If he frees the ludus—which I am sure he will—think of me.”

“Always,” Agron murmured. He did not wish to cause Nasir even accidental pain, and so he trailed his hand over the back of the slave’s neck, down the bumps of his unbruised spine. Nasir’s eyes fell closed, and Agron spread his fingers wide. The warmth of the skin beneath his fingers was intoxicating.

“I have to go,” Nasir sighed.

“Not yet.”

“Yes. I cannot be gone for too long.”

He leaned in for another kiss, and Agron trapped his lower lip between his own, refusing to let go until Nasir pulled away with a soft laugh.

“I do not know when I will see you again,” he said hastily, backing away. “If they are more careful about the games, it might not be until—”

“Too fucking long,” Agron called, and Nasir’s laugh echoed as the slave disappeared up the steps.

 _Freedom_. Any delay was too fucking long.

***

Duro paced the sewers angrily. Damn them—damn them all. If any had the right to accompany Crixus in his quest to find slave traders, it was Duro. This was the first fucking time in months he had had opportunity and resources to find the shit who had sold his brother, and here he was, trapped like a rat below ground. It drove him to madness!

He turned a corner rather abruptly and almost tripped over Mira, who was doing the washing along with several other house slaves.

“Apologies,” he said shortly—judging by the glare it earned him, his mood was not excused. Mira stood, stretching herself up to her full height in a way that was eerily reminiscent of his own mother.

“You are not the only one who is yet trapped underground, away from the sun and air,” she said sulkily. “You would do well to remember it.”

“I am not  _trapped_ ,” Duro argued with a scowl. He gestured at his side, which was bare of bandages—Auctus had removed the stitches days ago, and yet he had believed it best for Duro to avoid raids for some time still, and Crixus and Spartacus had agreed with him. “My wound has healed. If Auctus had not interfered—”

He did not even dare to finish his sentence. Mira looked at him with a look of such cold disinterest that he lost all words.

“Some among us would be grateful for the opportunity to rest, and to be looked after by loving and attentive hands,” she said pointedly. Duro thought guiltily of Aurelia—set to cart that very morning, with the weight of her ordeal still heavy in her eyes. “The rebellion needs men and women of strength, who are willing to make sacrifices, not angry little boys who cannot walk in a straight line without pushing others aside.”

“That was accidental.”

Mira shrugged. She lifted her washing and walked forward. She stopped directly in front of Duro, staring through him with all the regality of a queen. Duro took the hint, and stepped out of her way.

He looked towards the sewer entrance and scowled. There was truth to what Mira said—but Duro had gone  _months_  without word of his brother. It had been difficult enough to entrust the task to another, even Auctus, and to wait another second to hear the results of the mission was unbearable.

As if in answer to his prayers, there was a clamor at the entrance. A horde of eager warriors streamed through, and his heart lifted. It was no use looking for Auctus in the crowd; he stood still, as much as it pained him, and waited. After a torturous moment, Auctus materialized, and Duro strode towards him, arms open.

“Uninjured?”

“I am whole,” Auctus said, fitting easily into Duro’s embrace.

“Then you have no fucking excuse for making me wait. What did he say—did you find him? What news?”

“Calm yourself,” he said soothingly, placing a warning hand on Duro’s new scar.

“Fuck calm,” Duro retorted. He shoved at Auctus’s shoulder impatiently. “I’ve had enough of these fucking sewers. Did you find him?”

“Yes; it was the man you described.”

“And?”

“He breathed his last before he could be adequately questioned—”

Rhaskos, passing by, snorted, and Auctus glared at his back. With a frown, he pulled Duro aside. He pressed a mute kiss to Duro’s forehead—no doubt meant to be soothing—and Duro hit him in the shoulder again.

“ _Tell_   _me_.”

“Executed,” Auctus said quietly. “In Picintia.”

For one long moment, the world stopped. Duro couldn’t feel his heartbeat. The air was gone from his lungs, but he was unable to draw breath. The man in front of him seemed strange—unrecognizable—and when he tried to turn away, to look away from that unfamiliar face, he found that his limbs had gone numb.

Then it all came rushing back, and Duro found himself nodding. Nodding, as though he had comprehended what had just been said to him.

“Why?” he asked in a calm voice. Auctus was watching his face intently.

“I am not entirely sure; Trebius died too soon to tell the full tale. From what I understood, he nearly killed the man when he discovered that he had been separated from you.”

Duro laughed. The sound echoed harshly off of the sewer walls, and Auctus winced.

“That mad fuck. If he could pick any way to die, it would be in a fucking fight with some Roman shit. Over  _me_. That fuck. That  _fucker_ —”

Finally, his voice broke in a jagged sob. He tried to turn away, but Auctus was ready. Just as his knees gave way, Auctus’s arms encircled him. Slowly, Auctus lowered them to the ground and arranged their bodies so that Duro’s uncontrollable sobs were muffled against his shoulder. Duro was grateful; there was only so much privacy one could find in such close quarters. He knew that he would be subjected to the pitying looks of those who overheard his grief, but he would rather not have their contempt, as well.

He did not know how long they knelt there, unmoving except for the constant pressure of Auctus’s hands rubbing slow, smooth circles against Duro’s back. It was a gesture meant to comfort, not to console. Consolation was impossible. After a while, Duro stopped crying and began to breathe steadily, but Auctus said nothing, and did not make a move to stand.

“He’s been dead this whole fucking time,” Duro finally said in a hoarse voice. “All this time, and I didn’t know—the mark—the  killing—Batiatus. I’ve been making a fucking fool of myself.”

“No—”

“He’s  _dead_ , Auctus.”

“I know. Listen to me.” Auctus took Duro’s tear-streaked face in both hands and spoke firmly. “You are  _not_  a fool. No man is ever a fool if he fights for love.”

Duro took a deep, shaky breath, and looked away. His eyes travelled through the sewers, watching the play of fire on stone and water. He felt, very, very distant. Unconsciously, he shifted away.

“You are my whole world,” he said. He was proud of how steady his voice sounded, but he could not make eye contact.

“I am the  _best_  part of your world,” Auctus corrected with a soft laugh. “Not the only part. Many love you. More care for you. My heart aches to know that one who loved you so much as gone, but do not doubt that the man who caused his death is for the afterlife, and I  _swear_  that the whole of Rome will follow.”

“The wound that separated us—it was caused in my defense,” Duro admitted.

He had never said it aloud before; he had hardly permitted himself to remember it. Now it could not leave his head. Over and over he relieved it in brief flashes: his panic as he stood in the midst of battle with a broken sword, his shield lost; Agron’s muttered curse as a soldier’s blade bit into his flesh; the frown on his face, which he tried to hide, when it refused to scab. The wound itself, red, raw, oozing, swollen, lined with puffy white tissue.

And finally, Agron’s face as he last saw it, the eyes wide with childlike helplessness that Duro had never seen in his life, before he fell to his knees in the center of the square and Duro screamed for him until his throat tore.

He had thought his brother dead, then. How many nights had he woken in a fit of fear and guilt, and curled closer to Auctus like a child? It had disturbed both of their sleep, but Auctus rarely complained, and Duro could not help himself. He had clung to the mad hope that, somehow, his brother still drew breath, and the signs of life beside him in the night had been soothing. The gods had blessed him by leading him to Auctus; to torment him by snatching Agron from his grasp in that moment was too cruel.

At least he had not been entirely correct. Agron had not died that very moment. Duro had not been forced to watch…

During the rebellion, as he lay bleeding in the sand, Duro had had enough wisdom left to wish that Agron would never know of his death. The gods had granted him that, at least, but he could not help but despise them for not granting him the same peace.

Suddenly, Auctus hand gripped his chin and wrenched him around to make eye contact, and Duro realized that his breathing was harsh and fast. He gulped for air and Auctus reached up tenderly to frame his face with both hands.

“Then he died for what he loved best. Duro,  _agapimou_ 1, listen to me. When I thought—when you were wounded for my sake, the same thoughts were running through my mind. I cannot pretend that that pain was more than a fraction of yours, but believe me—I understand. And now, think: if there were one thing in the world that you would sacrifice yourself for…”

There was no question, now.

“You.”

Auctus closed his eyes and touched their foreheads together.

“And I you. Given the chance, I would rather die a hundred deaths in your defense than a meaningless one in the arena. I am sure that Agron thought the same.”

“Why are you saying this?” Duro interrupted, anger coloring his voice. “Am I meant to be grateful that my brother—?”

“You are meant to survive,” Auctus said fiercely. “Grief can make you strong, but guilt will destroy you. And I will not see you destroyed.”

“No. I want to fight.” He leaned forward for a harsh, biting kiss. “I am healed. It is past fucking time to see Rome burn.

-

Later, as they prepared their supplies, Crixus approached Duro.

“A word.”

Duro nodded, and Crixus drew him aside. His expression, thank the gods, bore no traces of pity or mockery; Crixus had not been present when Duro had received the news of Agron’s death, and in any case Duro doubted that Crixus would have thought any less of him. What man could hear that his love was to go through the torture that Naevia was even now experiencing, and pity anyone else?

“I wished to offer condolences for your brother,” Crixus said, in lowered voice so as not to tempt unwelcome ears. “I was doubtful of you when first we met, but you have proven yourself a skilled fighter and trusted ally many times over; I can imagine that any man sharing your blood would have done the same.”

“Gratitude,” Duro said, and almost meant it.

“Had Trebius lived for longer, he might have revealed the name of the Roman shit who arranged the execution of good men for sport,” Crixus continued. “Apologies—but rest assured, our journey will grant us that knowledge, and I will do all I can to see you rip head from shoulders.”

Duro smiled, and proffered his forearm. Crixus gripped it tight.

“Your aid is appreciated. Know that you have mine, in seeing Naevia again to your arms.”

Crixus expressed his thanks, and they returned to preparations. Immediately, Duro sensed eyes upon him, and looked up to see Auctus watching him, a compassionate question in his eyes. Duro could feel his entire expression soften, and he nodded. It had been a long and difficult night, but in the light of day saw him still alive, still standing, and still primed for vengeance.

Auctus turned away, and Duro caught sight of Mira at his side. The house slave was looking at him with sober consideration on her face. He met her regard blankly, offering nothing. It seemed to him that she nodded, just slightly.

He had made his sacrifice.

* * *

**1** Agapimou: a (loosely translated) Greek endearment meaning “my love.” It has the added connotation of being the kind of love that is “unconditional, self-sacrificing, active, volitional, and thoughtful.”↩


	11. Chapter 11

In the days following Nasir’s visit, security increased threefold. Soldiers were placed around the ludus; at the slightest hint of mutinous glances, they beat the guilty party bloody. Of course, they never wounded any man severely enough to warrant medical attention or, gods forbid, keep him from the arena, but it was still irritating for those who felt mutinous even in their best moods—like Agron, for example. It was days before he deemed it wise to consult Uxoris.

“The fuck have you done?” the gladiator grunted as soon as Agron stepped into his room. Agron glanced back into the hall to ensure their privacy, and shut the door behind him.

“Nothing.”

“Juno’s asshole, how stupid do you take me? Dominus parades his patrons through the ludus—none of us knew that we had sponsors, except for you—then your secret whore appears in the dead of night—”

“Nasir is not—” Agron said hotly, but Uxoris spoke over him, and in the interest of secrecy he was forced to be silent.

“—inciting your gods-fucked temper beyond reason, and now the ludus is packed full of soldiers whose greatest joy in life is watching us shit. What have you done?”

“I have done nothing,” Agron repeated. “Nasir is body slave to his dominus; he came to me with information.”

Uxoris muttered “information” in a dubious voice underneath his breath, but he did not object. He sat back, crossed his arms, and waited.

“There has been a gladiator revolt in Capua.”

Silence permeated the room. Uxoris’s expression did not so much as flicker.

“A what?”

“A gladiator revolt. An entire ludus of men rose up against the Romans; even now, they are crossing Italia, evading capture and setting free every slave they come across.”

“And what do you intend to do with this information?” Uxoris asked faintly, his lips barely moving. Agron squared his shoulders.

“Join them.”

“Why?”

Agron opened his mouth, closed it again, and sighed. He leaned against the door with his arms folded while he collected his thoughts. Why rebel? Because slavery was repugnant to him. Because the very thought of killing another man in the name of sport, of being touched by another Roman and told to enjoy it, of lowering his gaze and muttering “Dominus” made his hands itch to for a sword.

He could not say that to Uxoris. The man may have been a Nubian, once, but he was a gladiator now, loyal to his master and his axe, no others. For a long moment, he was silent. Finally he looked down. Uxoris was watching him.

“When I first arrived, you told me what it meant to be a gladiator—strength and honor were the gist of it.”

“Courage,” he grunted. Agron nodded.

“Courage. You said that gladiators were more than men; you were wrong. A gladiator is not a god. He plays one for the enjoyment of the people who invaded his home, destroyed his people, slaughtered his family, and led him away in shackles. And when he plays the role of a god, and the crowd roars his name, he starts to believe that he is truly more than a man. That is the very second when he becomes a slave. When a man takes pride in slavery—that is when the Romans have conquered him.

“I do not intend to be conquered. If I join Spartacus, I will keep my honor, strength, and courage, and have a fucking choice in which life I lead. I would forgo the title of gladiator, if I can think of myself as a man again.”

Uxoris paused for the briefest of moments, then tapped his knees and stood.

“All right.”

Agron stared.

“What?”

“You’ve convinced me,” the Nubian said simply. “More importantly, that pretty little speech will convince the others, as well. Practice it—most of the gladiators here have grown lazy, and we will need fire in their hearts if we are to best all these fucking Romans.”

“I had not thought you would be so easy to persuade,” Agron admitted. Uxoris grimaced.

“When I was young, I fathered a child by one of the villa slaves. She— _lost_  the babe when I informed Dominus of my intent to purchase their freedom and my own.”

He spoke the words with utmost casualness, but the bitterness in his face chilled Agron’s blood. He thought of Duro, and the letter he had sent, and felt sick. Gods be good, no one had ever read that letter.

“Condolences,” he said stiffly, not knowing what to say. Uxoris nodded shortly.

“I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to leave for years; I just did not wish to die. With an entire rebellion underway, we might fare better. Now, the night is late, and sleep calls me. Return to your bed, German.”

He touched Agron on the shoulder, but Agron pulled away, irritated.

“Every word I spoke increased odds of discovery. If you wished to join me from the moment I raised topic, then what was the fucking point?”

The gladiator leaned forward, his voice a low, rocky rumble. Agron bent closer to hear.

ldquo;The two of us will not escape this ludus on our own, and no one truly believes an old man would be so daring. The men will not follow me—they must follow you.”

“You’ve been the most valued gladiator in the ludus for years.”

“And that is why I will prove useful,” the gladiator growled, hitting Agron hard in the chest. “Doubt the strength of my axe, and it will chop you in two. I leave the words to younger men, with louder voices. Go practice.”

Agron nodded solemnly and grasped Uxoris by the arm. The gladiator clutched him tightly for a moment, his face grave, and then let him go.

-

Over the next few days, Agron and Uxoris sought audiences with most of the gladiators in the ludus. Some were untrustworthy; Agron had shrewd suspicions on who they were, and Uxoris generally confirmed his thoughts. Others were capable of listening and keeping counsel, but expressed doubts about the actual plan.

“It will not be our ludus alone,” Agron repeated in a low voice to Tuccius, one of the Gauls who was reticent. “Once we defeat the guards, we need only find Spartacus and his men; common Roman soldiers cannot fight gladiators and hope to live.”

“Unarmed gladiators cannot hope to live against Roman guards,” the man said anxiously, glancing at the guards.

“I can. Uxoris and the other veterans can. Together, victory is within our grasp.”

“Perhaps,” he said, stepping slowly away. “I will consider your words.”

 _And do nothing_ , Agron thought resentfully as he watched the gladiator walk away. Very few of the gladiators had been as enthusiastic as Uxoris. Years of apathy had shriveled their cocks; he doubted that they could scrounge a half-dozen warriors for when the day came.

Uxoris approached him and set to the pallas.

“How fares your luck?” he grunted as the practice sword cracked against the wood.

“Poorly. You?”

“Aulus is cautious, but interested, Modius eager. The rest will take convincing.”

“Fuck,” Agron muttered under his breath. “Even we cannot fight off an entire barracks alone.”

“And if you recruit others to join our cause, we will not need to.”

“What do you propose?”

Uxoris surveyed the ludus for a long moment. He sighed.

“I have been here for too long. I do not know.”

“What did Marcus answer?” Agron asked suddenly, following his gaze.

“No.”

Agron nodded decisively and approached the gladiator in question, a hefty murmillo who favored dice.

“Marcus,” he called. “I would have sport.”

The gladiator looked at him warily for a moment, then his eyes slid to Doctore, who stood in the doorway of the ludus. Marcus knew that there was a deeper meaning to Agron’s request, but could not probe for it with Doctore so near, and uncharacteristically sober. He shrugged him off.

“The day has tired me.”

“Then let us inspire new energy. I offer a bet. If you win, the primus is yours.”

He doubted he had the power to bestow such, but for once, his patron proved to be of use by value of reputation. The gladiator’s eyes widened eagerly.

“And if I lose?”

“Then Uxoris and I continue with our plan for escape—and you will join us.”

His words sent a chorus of whispers through the small crowd of gladiators, and some of Marcus’s enthusiasm faded. He glanced at Uxoris, seeking some hint of Agron’s plot, but Uxoris refused to meet his gaze. Marcus had not been at the ludus for many years, but he held great respect. Agron had chosen him for a reason.

“I have no desire to be crucified; seek some other gladiator to cross swords with you.”

“You dare assume the mantle of gladiator?” Agron sneered. “After refusing the primus? I have not been at this ludus for a year yet,” he pressed, as Marcus’s jaw clenched. “Do I inspire such fear that you will not fight me?”

There were a few furious moments of silence as Marcus’s thoughts whirled. Finally, he stood and drew his sword.

“Let it not be said that I cowered from a German whelp,” he said congenially. “I will take your wager.”

A small circle formed around the two gladiators. Agron held his sword loosely in one hand—neither was armed with shield—and waited. Marcus watched him cautiously, unwilling to make the first move, and Agron waited a long moment as his opponent’s nerves overtook him.

Then he lunged forward, his sword swinging wildly as he threw all of his weight into each blow. The same quiet strength had settled in his veins, quelling rage but inspiring passion. No opening in Marcus’s guard went unnoticed. His opponent was a good fighter, and attempted to retaliate several times, but most blows were batted away easily. The ones that landed caused Agron no worry.

The bout was quick. With a rough battle cry, Marcus thrust his sword at Agron’s stomach, determined to make one good hit, and Agron swept aside. All it took was a little push, the gladiator went crashing to the ground. Agron put a foot on his back and leveled his sword tip at the man’s neck.

Cheers greeted the conclusion of the match, and Marcus offered missio. Agron helped him up. The gladiator looked pale.

“I had not thought you would beat me so easily, Lupinius,” he admitted.

“My name is Agron.”

“Jupiter’s cock, what the fuck is this?” Doctore’s voice snapped suddenly. “Kill each other in the arena, not the fucking ludus. And the rest of you—back to training.”

Agron looked at Uxoris immediately. They could not be interrupted now. He was so close….

“We wished only to see the outcome of a gamble, Doctore.” Aulus stepped forward, and Agron worked to keep his surprise from showing. “Apologies—I would return to sparring, but I have a favor I must ask of you.”

Doctore glared at him for a moment. He repeated his orders to the rest of the gladiators, and then gestured for Aulus to follow him as he returned to the inner corridors of the ludus. Agron watched him go, and saw with delight that the timing was perfect; the guards were changing, and for a scant minute or two, the gladiators were alone in the training ground.

“My name is Agron,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “And I won, because my kin and my homeland lie in my thoughts, and outside these walls. You think the Romans strong; we are stronger. This fucking house has dampened the fire that fills every free man’s veins. Join me, and see the flames ignite. Join Spartacus, and see Rome burn.”

There was a moment of heavy silence as they regarded him. A few men were nodding, others still hesitant.

“We have no weapons,” one said, finally. “When and how would we accomplish such a thing?”

Agron hesitated.

“We do not yet know. But if I do not have the oath and aid of every man here, the opportunity will never surface.”

“I fight with Agron,” Uxoris said finally, just as the guards began to slowly return to their posts. Modius clapped an arm around Marcus’s shoulders and grinned.

“As do we.”

The others were beginning to look convinced, and Agron held his breath. Before any more could be said, though, someone muttered, “Dominus.”

All heads turned. Aulus and Doctore had returned. With them was Dominus and the captain of the guard.

“This one?” the guard said casually, gesturing at Agron. Aulus looked him in the eye and nodded.

The man stepped forth and produced a set of manacles. Agron stood numbly, and wordlessly turned his head to Uxoris. Uxoris stared back, a look of utter shock on his face, and then the world went black.

***

The next few days were taken up in the march south. Finally, they reached a villa that Spartacus deemed isolated enough to attack without too much danger, which they did in short order. Crixus led the Roman master to a different room, and Duro couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. Crixus had made it his mission to tear the life from any that had brought harm to Naevia, and no one begrudged him that honor, but… It had not been common soldiers who had brought death to his brother, and their blood did nothing to soothe Duro’s pain.

The rest of the gladiators dispersed through the villa, on Spartacus’s orders, to locate its slaves and calm any who seemed likely to give away their position. Duro was on his way to join them when Auctus grew close and kissed him behind the ear.

“You fought well.”

“As did you.”

“Your wound caused you no worry?”

“None,” Duro said with the barest hint of a smile. “You need not mother me, you know. I am a grown man.”

“A grown man whose care is my concern,” Auctus countered. “I told you never to give in to despair,  _agapimou_ , and I meant it. Giving in to your own foolish pride would be even worse. You’d be dead in a week.”

“Agron used to say much the same thing.”

It was starting to hurt less—his brother’s name on his lips. He could not tell the others of his loss, but with Auctus, he was beginning to share little, inconsequential details: Agron’s stubbornness, his favorite meals, a sword technique he had favored, the way he used to play with the dogs. Just enough to keep Agron in his mind, instead of buried in his grief.

Despite that, he was not prepared to hear the name in another’s voice.

“Agron?” One of the slaves stepped forward, his eyes intent on Duro’s face. “Are you his brother?”

Duro did not fully understand what happened. One moment he was standing there beside Auctus, and in the next he was rushing forward and his hands were at the slave’s throat. The warm flesh pulsed underneath his touch, and the slave’s eyes widened in alarm as he squeezed.

How dare he? How dare he speak that name? Duro had no idea how the slave had heard it—if he was one of Trebius’s stock, who had seen Agron in chains, or a member of the audience on the day when Agron’s blood had spilled upon the sands. Perhaps he was an intimate of the spineless, gutless gladiator who had done the deed. It did not matter. The slave was mocking Agron’s memory, and he would pay for it.

Within moments, though, the ringing in his ears subsided and he heard Auctus’s voice shouting his name, urging caution. Hands pulled at his arms, and he lost his grip. The slave stumbled back, his eyes wide as his fingers flew to his bruised throat. Duro tried to step forward again, but Auctus held him back with his arms locked around Duro’s torso.

“Calm yourself,” he hissed in Duro’s ear. “ _Think_ —there are other slaves watching, frightened of us, expecting violence—”

“He—”

“—I know what he did. I  _know,_ and I swear it will be dealt with, but not here.”

“Duro,” Spartacus barked, approaching them. There was fury in his voice. “Have you lost mind?”

“Apologies,” Duro said grudgingly. “I merely sought to correct an error.”

“As all can see,” the leader muttered. He looked down at the slave, who was leaning against a pillar as he coughed and breathed shallowly. Unseen by Duro, another slave, a blonde woman, had approached them. She was speaking to him in a low voice, examining his neck. “Is he well?”

“He is alive,” the woman snapped, before the slave could answer. “Despite the best efforts of your mad dog.”

“Your…” the slave began, but his voice was hoarse, and it dissolved in silence before he could finish. He coughed, and ever so faintly Duro could discern the word “Water.”

The woman looked at Spartacus, who nodded regally. She gave the slave her arm and began to lead him away. Spartacus turned to Duro, his voice dropping so he could not be heard.

“If the slave truly caused offence, I would recommend mercy—we do not wish to frighten away valuable assets. If mercy is impossible, subtlety would suffice.”

Duro nodded his acceptance of that, and moved to follow the slaves. Immediately, the woman halted.

“I would not see Nasir to further harm. Remain here.”

“No fucking—”

“We seek only peaceful resolution,” Auctus said in a soothing voice. He stepped forward, putting an arm around Duro’s shoulder. “You need not fear us.”

She stared at him intently for a moment, before nodding and resuming her path with hurried steps, always keeping space between the two slaves and the rebels. They moved into a separate courtyard, in the corner of which was a water cache. The slave sipped carefully from the ladle, and was able to take a slow breath without difficulty. He turned to Duro, his dark eyes hidden in the moonlight, and spoke softly.

“Your brother is looking for you.”

“My brother is dead,” Duro said cuttingly. He could hear the coldness in his own voice, and it was reassuring—if he could say it with such disinterest in his voice, he could pretend the words did not pierce his very soul.

Nasir shook his head, and Duro’s blood was set to boiling. He stepped forward again, his hands itching to wrap around the slave’s throat, but Auctus held him back.

“The man we speak of was executed in Picintia. Who uses his name?”

“Same man,” he croaked out, before dissolving into a fit of coughs.

“Do not speak,” the woman said sharply, rubbing his back soothingly.

“I must explain,” he said, determined.

“I can do it.” She rounded on Duro, cool resentment in her grey eyes. He straightened his shoulders defiantly. “There was a slave sent to die in Picintia, but his performance in the arena earned him mercy. Our dominus purchased him, and Nasir has been in his presence often these past months. He even spoke of purchasing freedom—for himself and his brother, a gladiator in Capua. He did not mention that his brother was a murderous half-wit.”

Embarrassment flooded Duro’s cheeks. He felt, as though from someone else’s body, Auctus’s arm sneak around his back for support, and he swallowed thickly. His throat worked to produce sound, but none emerged; he could not even begin to understand her words, let alone create a response.

Agron was dead. Agron was  _dead_. He had resisted that truth for months. He could not slip so easily back into the realm of denial. To do so would bring only more pain.

“I don’t fucking believe you,” he managed finally.

“It does not matter what you  _believe_ ,” she said haughtily. “It is the truth.”

“There’s a letter,” the slave said hoarsely. “Chadara—in the study.”

Chadara remained stubbornly still, glaring at Duro, but Nasir repeated her name in a low voice, and she stormed off with a toss of her yellow hair. She returned promptly, with a worn scrap of parchment in her hands. She shoved it at Duro mutely.

“What is this?” he asked suspiciously.

“From Agron, to you. Dominus kept it,” Nasir explained.

Duro had never even begun his own letter to Agron; the cost of writing and sending it had been monumental. Surely Agron would not have been able to afford it so soon…

His heart was pounding with the desperate need to hope again, as much as his mind rebelled against it. After an impatient moment, Auctus snatched the paper away. He read it quickly, muttering the words under his breath.

“Ludus in Picintia… unharmed… we will be united soon. It is not signed with his name.”

“Lupinius was the name given to him by my dominus. He detests it.”

“What are these markings?”

Nasir shrugged helplessly. Silently, Auctus handed the letter to Duro. His hands shook as he accepted it and looked at the marks that Auctus indicated. At first, they made no sense to him; they weren’t any letters that he recognized, and they seemed mere splotches on the page. As he examined them more closely, though, he began to spot familiarities.

That long line on the end—the crooks in it matched the bend of the Rhine exactly, down to the dip of the bank where he and Agron used to jump in on hot summer days. The fence on the edge, with the hole that Duro had meant to repair when they came back from war. The smudgy circle of their home, with three small figures beside it.

“Agron wrote this,” he said through numb lips.

“As I told you.”

“He was to be executed.”

“He was not,” Nasir said simply.

Duro turned to Auctus, who looked distressed.

“I did not know—I swear, I thought Trebius spoke truly. Duro…”

“It does not matter,” Duro said, waving him aside. “The ludus in Picintia—I must speak to Spartacus.”

Auctus nodded, and Duro turned to find their leader.

“That is all?” Chadara said loudly, a shrill note in her voice.  She looked furious on her friend’s behalf, and Duro felt a rush of shame. “One word in your own interest, and you run off without a care? If that is how new allies are greeted in Spartacus’s ranks, he will not have much of an army. And Agron would not thank you for such rough handling.”

“If Agron thought I were mocking his brother’s death, he would do worse,” Nasir said with a small smile.

“Yes…” Duro said slowly, though he couldn’t help but be surprised at the slave’s forgiveness. “Still, apologies.”

Nasir looked at him for a long moment, as though searching his face for a resemblance, and nodded thoughtfully. He coughed again, his hand hovering over his chest, and Duro again felt guilty. The bruises on his neck were dark. Chadara gave him more water, which he accepted and drank quickly before turning back to Duro.

“The ludus will be prepared for you,” he informed him. “I told Agron of Spartacus’s rebellion; he will have told the others.”

“Such open gossip is dangerous,” Auctus said, a severe frown taking over his face. Nasir did not look down.

“It needed to be done,” he said, pride coloring his voice, and suddenly Duro understood.

All that talk about trusting no one, speaking to no one, and the moment Duro’s back was turned, Agron decided to fuck a slave. Fuck him—confide in him—care about him. Trust his information. Duro couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“I’m going to kill him,” he muttered to himself as he turned back to the villa. He reached blindly for Auctus’s hand, and squeezed him tightly for strength. “Come—Spartacus needs to hear this.”

***

Agron leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. It was difficult to track how long he had been imprisoned in this small stone room—longer than one day, but less than five, at least. It did not take five days for a message to be delivered to Levitius, and once Levitius heard of the rebellion, his punishment would be swift, Agron had no doubt of that. Nasir’s face spoke of the Roman’s temper. He scowled to himself, and turned his thoughts to other matters.

He wondered if Uxoris was locked up somewhere. Probably not. Aulus had said nothing of Uxoris’s part in the planning—his ire had been for Agron alone. And he could hardly speak up now with information that he had withheld earlier. That was good, at least. No one else was suffering for Agron’s mistakes.

He hoped, desperately, that Levitius did not connect Agron’s betrayal with Nasir’s. If he did, Agron had no doubt that they would both be killed, instantly if they were lucky. He let out a weary sigh and began to pray. It was the first time in a long while, and he hoped that the gods could hear him.

Slowly, he became aware of noises from outside his cell, more than could be accounted for by training. He frowned and opened his eyes, craning his neck to see out into the corridor, but it was no use. Whatever was happening, it was taking place outside of the ludus. First he was able to discern shouts, and then the unmistakable clatter of swords.

Agron’s heart leapt, and he fumbled to his feet despite the heavy chains. Gladiators did not train with metal swords, nor did they make such shouts. Could it be that the ludus was in rebellion, even without him?

There was a sudden crash as something—weapons, a man in heavy armor?—hit the stone floor of the inner ludus. Agron tried to step forward, but the chains again prevented him. His heart was racing.

“Who is there?” he shouted.

No response. Only more crashes, more clattering sounds as steel met steel and rock, shouts, gasps, the last groans of dying men. His muscles strained as he tried to pull free, and the skin around his wrists was turning raw. Just as he was about to shout again, he heard close footsteps racing in his direction.

“Agron!”

“Nasir?”

He could not contain his shock at seeing Nasir there, clad is loose leather armor, with keys in hand and blood upon his face. The slave’s hands appeared to fumble with the keys for a moment, but then the gate swung open, and Nasir was in his arms.

“Quickly—the chains—”

“Blood—”

Nasir extracted himself from Agron’s embrace and immediately bent over the shackles at Agron’s wrist.

“It’s nothing. Not mine.”

Agron didn’t care. He reached up, the chains clinking as he framed Nasir’s face in his hands. Gently, he wiped the stickly blood from Nasir’s face. Nasir leaned forward and kissed him roughly, his mouth hard and demanding against Agron’s. Agron pulled him closer, already out of breath. Too soon, Nasir broke away to unlock the chains.

“What’s happening?” Agron panted.

“Spartacus. He arrived at my villa two nights ago and I led him here.”

“There are bruises on your neck.”

“I have bruises everywhere,” Nasir said impatiently as he dropped down to unlock the chains at his feet. “And blood on my face. A product of rebellion, and something you must adapt to quickly. We must find more arms.”

Agron stepped forward, free of the chains, and immediately pulled Nasir into another kiss.

“First—are you injured? At all?” he asked, touching their foreheads.

“ _No_. I am well, I swear.”

Agron hesitated, almost too scared to ask.

“Duro?”

Nasir only smiled. He loosed his sword from his belt—it was strange to see him with a weapon—and placed it in Agron’s hand, before he turned back to the corridors. Agron followed him, his eyes sharp for danger, but already the sounds of battle were being replaced by sounds of conversation, confusion, information being passed around between rebels and gladiators.

By the time they reached the training yard, Agron was in the lead. He halted before his feet hit sand, the breath stuck in his lungs.

There was Duro, in the same ludus where Agron had dreamed endlessly of finding him. His brother was engaged in conversation with another gladiator, but Agron knew him well enough to spot signs of distraction in him—weight set forward, as though he were poised to run, and wandering eyes.

Suddenly, those eyes fell on Agron. He staggered and almost fell as Duro collided with him, but his brother’s arms held him close, and Agron returned the embrace, though it made it hard to breathe. For a moment they simply clutched each other, reveling in the sense of touch. Eyes could be deceived, words false, but this was no dream. Duro shuddered in his embrace, and Agron pulled back to touch their foreheads, and meet his brother’s eyes.

“I said I would find you,” Duro said in their native tongue, his voice warped with emotion. “I’m sorry—”

“Duro, you’re  _alive_. That is enough.” He tugged him into a tight embrace again with a weak laugh. “Fuck the gods, I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

“I thought you were dead.” Duro withdrew slightly so they could speak, though his hand still rested loosely at Agron’s elbow, a familiar presence. “Trebius said you were.”

“That miserable leech would have seen to it,” Agron growled, his old hate rekindled. “I will tear fucking his guts out.”

“The deed is already done,” the gladiator with Duro said dryly. Agron looked at him shrewdly—the man had a blank face that betrayed nothing more than mild amusement. He did not know whether that was good or not.

“By you?”

“By a whore in Capua.”

Agron felt a momentary flash of regret, but he ignored it and turned back to his little brother, holding him at arm’s length as he examined him. Duro looked different. His warrior’s braids were cut off, replaced by the soft curls Agron remembered from their childhood, and… he looked like a gladiator. His muscles were hardened, skin decked with scars and freshly-healed bruises.

“What the fuck is that?” Agron asked, horrified, as his gaze fell to his brother’s arm. A large, rough-healed burn graced his forearm, in the shape of a B. Duro looked up at him, puzzled.

“Must you always find something for concern? It’s nothing, only the mark of the brotherhood. Do you not have one?”

Before Agron could respond, another gladiator from Duro’s ludus came up to them—he was short and stocky, with blood spatter on his shoulders.

“Gladiators of Picintia are of a lower stock,” he said in a gravelly voice. “There is no brotherhood among them, and no brand.”

Instantly, his words sent a rush of anger through Agron’s veins. Duro introduced the man hastily as Crixus, but before he could introduce Agron in turn, Agron sneered.

“And what would a fucking Gaul know of brotherhood between warriors?” he asked snidely.

“… my brother, Agron,” Duro finished. Crixus eyed him suspiciously.

“For that, then, I will forgive your words this time, as foolishness runs in your blood. Spartacus will want to speak to him,” he said offhandedly to Duro. “We are not to remain here long; we progress further south, and all men must be accounted for.”

“Understood.” Duro turned back to Agron again, his expression determined. “But before that, tell me everything.  _Lupinius_.”

Automatically, Agron glanced over his shoulder to grimace at Nasir. The Syrian was hovering anxiously a few feet behind him. He tried to return Agron’s glance with a smile, but there was hesitance in it, and Agron berated himself. He had not thought to introduce Duro to Nasir yet—that must be rectified. He stepped back slightly, reaching an arm for Nasir.

“Duro, this—”

“We have met already,” Nasir said, nodding at Duro with a small smile. “I was the one who directed Spartacus to the ludus.”

“I did not believe him, at first,” Duro grinned. “Because that stupid Roman shit told me you were dead—”

“And you believed him? Fucking idiot.”

“—but your man steered us true.”

 _My_   _man_ , Agron thought, struck by the joy it brought him. He grasped Nasir’s wrist loosely in one hand and squeezed. Nasir drew closer to his side, and Agron ducked down to press a swift kiss to his mouth.

“Gratitude,” he said lowly.

When he straightened up again, there was an odd look on Duro’s face, and Agron’s muscles tensed. He had assumed, by his brother’s words, that he and Nasir had already spoken. If that was not the case, then this was going to be an uncomfortable conversation. Agron wasn’t used to uncomfortable conversations with his brother—especially not after this, the longest separation they’d ever suffered.

“Duro?” he asked tentatively, hoping for an explanation.

“Remember what you said?” Duro said abruptly, in German. A smile played on his lips. “Anyone who isn’t us is the enemy.”

Agron’s stomach dropped, and he swallowed.

“Yes.”

“You owe me.” Duro switched back to Latin and jerked his head in the direction of the gladiator at his side, who was watching the proceedings intently. “This is Auctus. He saved my life.”

“I repaid a debt,” Auctus corrected, meeting Agron’s gaze bravely.

Cautiously, Agron stepped forward and held out a hand.

“Still, you have my gratitude,” he said as he clasped the gladiator’s forearm. “The debt is mine. Now,” he said, turning to Duro. “I need a sword.”

“Spartacus is taking inventory of the weapons; one of the other gladiators showed him where they were kept. We will speak to him.”

Duro slung an arm around Agron’s shoulders, and together they began to walk towards the inventory, where Uxoris was standing with a heavily-armored gladiator whom Agron took to be Spartacus. Uxoris looked over, saw Agron, and nodded sagely. Agron guessed that the traitor was no longer among them—Uxoris’s face had the solemnity of a man who had done what needed to be done, even if it caused him no pleasure.

Suddenly, Duro tugged Agron even closer.

“So it’s clear, brother—Auctus and I are fucking.”

Behind him, Agron could hear Auctus sigh wearily, and Nasir suppress a giggle. He squeezed Duro’s shoulder, exasperated.

“It’s clear to any with eyes, Duro. We will discuss it later.”

“Later? Months you’ve been gone, and you speak of delaying further conversation?”

Agron looked at him with a slight smile.

“There will be plenty of time, later; I never intend to let you out of my fucking sight again.”

Duro grinned.

“Gods, I’ve missed you.”

***

When Duro woke, his bedroll was still warm. He stretched out and felt only the sun. There were voices in the distance, and the quiet sound of movement as the rebels began to wake. After a moment, he joined them. A few people greeted him as he rose, and he responded with civility, but he did not linger. He stopped briefly to grab a bowl of porridge on his way to the temple yard.

Auctus had taken to instruction easily, to Duro’s amusement. He was just as rude and demanding as he had been at the ludus, though on this particular morning his gruffness was muted, and interspersed with smiles and laughter. Duro was not surprised; Agron on the sidelines, watching carefully as Auctus and Nasir crossed spears. His arms were folded and lips pursed, and Duro smiled as he leaned against the wall beside him.

“He’s a man, not a lamb,” he murmured mockingly.

“I know. I am not worried.”

“And Auctus will not overreach.”

“I have faith in him,” Agron insisted impatiently. “In both of them.”

“You don’t have faith in anyone,” Duro said with a yawn.

He leaned against Agron’s shoulder comfortably. The slight chill of a Roman winter was setting in, but even so the sun warmed his brother’s skin, glinted off of Nasir’s loose hair, brought out the light in Auctus’s eyes.

Agron snorted doubtfully, and Duro smiled. Agron didn’t trust outsiders. Family was another matter.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered, and wrapped his arm around Duro’s shoulders.


End file.
